Frankie shifted again.

“I’ve got one calendar I’m writing in a book, from the last page backward. It’s a record in reverse of our lives together. I’ll figure it out on that one soon enough.”

In the next room of the spacecraft, the man in the blue cap was still unconscious and was suspended, by no visible means, from the ceiling, while the aliens stood beneath him with miniature clipboards and pencils. “So you don’t have any idea about the Ninth?”

“There’s something I need to do,” the Reverend said, his words overlapping Frankie’s question. “What’s that?”

“The Ninth—”

“I’m not withholding information, son. That would be my understandable right, but I’m not. I’m telling you what I know. Some of us are the real thing, and some of us ruined what was handed to us. I mean, some of us are among the most special and patient citizens that ever walked this Earth, and that’s who’s going to be delivered from it. It’s all about what you do with what they show you. I paint because I know I should. If you draw—and I mean really draw, from your head and not your heart—it’s because you know you should draw. Forget about the Ninth. Just be patient, in the meantime, about this … help they promised. The fact is, it comes with a price that’s probably not going to be negotiable.”

There was writing on the miniature clipboards. Frankie strained to read it, but it was too small. “Okay,” he said.

“Where are you headed when you leave here? Not to Prophet Mulvaney’s place, I hope.”

“Who?”

“That fool up near River Falls building the Apocalypse Boat.”

“No,” Frankie said. “I’m—I’m going home.”

“Jacksonville?”

“Merritt Island.”

“You got family?”

He had two brothers and one sister, but they weren’t there anymore. Sometimes it felt like they’d been carried away in separate ships, to separate planets. But there was someone waiting for him at home. He said, “My mom’s there.”

“She know what shape you’re in?”

He shook his head no.

“Is she expecting you?”

“Yes,” he said. “Not me … like this, but I called and told her I was coming.”

“Home.” The Reverend pronounced the word like a new sound he was testing out. He coughed suddenly. He coughed again, and then, from what Frankie could tell by the noises that entered from the bottom of the diorama, he spit. “What we do on this planet, we won’t do on the next. You realize that, don’t you?”

“I’m not sure.”

“That’s what it is. That’s what it has to be. Otherwise, there’s no point.” The Reverend spat again. Then, sounding both sad and irritated, he asked, “You got a tape deck in your car?”