On the right side of Anna’s neck, a thin scar ran down at a jagged angle. Slowly, I reached up and gently traced it with my fingertip. I liked to feel the small rise of the scar tissue beneath the skin, the vulnerability of the wound, the power of healing. It was the wound that caused this scar, and the blood it shed, that had saved my life, and had given me the opportunity to save hers.

She breathed in deeply and swallowed hard.

“Sorry,” I said.

She shook her head, waving off my apology, and I somehow made it back to my chair and sat down, while she took the empty chair across from my desk.

After being away from the institution for two weeks in chaplaincy training, I had more to do than I could fathom, but all I wanted was to be with Anna.

“I had a lot of people ask me about us while you were away this time,” she said.

“Us?” I asked, instinctively glancing at her ring finger before I realized what I was doing.

“If we’re having an affair,” she said. “They can’t understand us.”

I said, “Neither can I.”

She smiled and her dark brown eyes lit up.

The faint chant of prayers rising from the chapel drifted through the air like incense—Muslim prayers, prayed to Allah in Arabic.

Allaahu Akbar, Allaahu Akbar... Ash hadu allaa ilaaha ill Allah.

Tossing back her shoulder-length brown hair, she pulled a small plastic bag from the pile of mail and inmate requests on the chair beside her. “I got you a little something. Two little somethings actually.”

She handed me a small plastic bag with blue musical notes on it.

I withdrew two CDs from the bag. The first one was Dan Fogelberg’s latest, which I had picked up along with Jann Arden’s to enjoy on my drive back from central Florida.

“I wanted you to have them the moment you got back,” she said.

“Thank you,” I said, as if I didn’t already have them.

“The other one is Jann Arden, and you’re going to love her. She’s so honest and... well, melancholy, yet with an underlying optimism, or at least hope.”

I couldn’t have described her better. “I can’t wait to listen to them,” I said. “Thanks again.”

Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar... Laa ilaaha ill Allah.

An inmate passed slowly by my office door, lingering near the narrow panel of glass, staring at Anna as he did. A moment later, when he walked back by, I could see that it was Harmless Harry, one of the most notorious rapists the state of Florida had ever known. My fists clenched involuntarily.

Hayya’ alal Falaah... Qad qaamatis Salaah... Qad qaamatis Salaah.