Coot wandered toward a shop window and saw his reflection in it. The six-dollar seersucker suit fit him just right. He rotated in all directions so he could get a better look. He was nothing but a stick.

A poster hanging in the window caught his attention. In big, bold letters it read Revival Comes to Alabama.

On the poster was the illustration of a man with a square jaw, steel-rimmed glasses, and oiled hair. The poster was decorated with crosses and drawings of angels.

Sponsored by three hundred churches, a service for all faiths, divine healing and salvation, J. Wilbur Chaplain brings the Holy Ghost to Alabama.

There he was. J. Wilbur Chaplain, in all his glory. Coot had only ever heard his voice, never seen his face. This man was older than Coot imagined him, and he looked like a dime-novel hero in the poster.

Joseph leaned on his cane, gasping for wind. He stood beside Coot in front of the shop window.

“I don’t know, Joseph,” he said. “I’d prefer not to hurt anyone.”

“Well, that makes two of us, Coot.”

“We coulda bought a year’s worth of suppers with that money instead of buying that ugly, run-down car.”

“That car ain’t just a car, boy. It’s also a house on wheels, and it prevents us from having to ride trains with a bunch of cutthroats and godless thieves. That car is gonna save our life.”

They walked to the edge of town. Coot held Joseph’s arm for balance, but more for effect. They kept a slow pace, pausing every so often for Joseph to cough.

They arrived at a small clapboard church. The front door was open, the orange light spilling into the darkness from the open door and windows. The place was packed. Men were huddled in the rear of the room and gathered on the church steps. Children were seated on the floors and ladies in the pews.

Coot and Joseph walked into the building and stood behind the last row of seats. Coot whispered to Joseph, “I don’t like it here. I’ve changed my mind. I wanna go.”

Joseph patted Coot’s shoulder. “You got money for food I don’t know about?”

“No.”

“Then you stay right here and trust your old buddy.”

The man at the pulpit tapped a mallet on the wood. It was a business meeting of sorts. The man held a clipboard and a pencil in his hand. People were murmuring among themselves, and the sound of their voices overpowered the man with the mallet.

“Folks! Folks!” the man behind the pulpit yelled, beating his hammer. “Folks, can I have your attention, please? We’ve got a lot to discuss. We need to hurry this meeting along!”

People quieted themselves.