Coot cleared his throat. “Um, yes . . . I am with the, um . . .”

The man raised his eyebrows. “Sorry, son. He don’t receive visitors.” The man placed a meaty hand on the knob and shut the door.

Coot pressed his boot between the door and the jamb. The door closed on his foot and he thought he might have felt a few bones break.

“I know,” said Coot. “I know he doesn’t want visitors, but . . . but this is an emergency.”

“Emergency?” said the bald man.

“Life and death.”

“Life and death? Write him a letter. You know how many people got life-and-death emergencies for J. Wilbur?” He pressed the door closed.

This time Coot wedged his torso through the door and said, “There’s no time for letters. I need five minutes! Just five minutes! Please!”

The man placed his Virginia-ham-size hand on Coot’s throat and shoved him from the doorway. He followed Coot outside and shut the door behind him. He gave Coot a smirk. “You’re crazy, kid. Now get outta here before I teach you how to turn the other cheek.”

He went back inside, then closed the door.

“Please,” Coot shouted at the door. “Five minutes!” Coot slammed his fists against the door and beat out a steady rhythm. “Please!” Coot pretended to sob. “I’m begging you!”

The man opened the door again. He pressed Coot backward using his fist. He stared at Coot with a face that seemed more sympathetic than Coot had expected. The man drew in a long, annoyed breath.

“Wait right here,” he said.

Fake crying, Coot thought. Works every time.

Ninety-One
J. Wilbur

The interior of J. Wilbur Chaplain’s railcar was plain. There were no decorations, no intricate woodwork, and no chandeliers. There were only two beds, a kitchenette, and a fan in the corner, blowing.

Coot had only heard stories about him as a child. And he’d expected the man to be the poster boy for gracious living. But this man was traveling in a railcar that needed a fresh coat of paint and a few throw pillows. It was only a few notches above Coot’s jail cell.

He stood before the man, remembering all the things he’d heard about him. He’d heard all the stories there were. This man, many claimed, had changed tent preaching forever. Until J. Wilbur’s time, men had been preachers who begged sinners to come down the aisle using big words and high English. But J. Wilbur came into town and spoke common words, the people’s language. Sometimes he even used words that made sailors gasp.

Or so the stories went.