“And what was it like?”

“Well, his body went from being stiff and hard and cold to being warm and moving. And now he’s alive again, and he’s a different man.”

“Different? How?”

“Well, he used to have a problem with the bottle, and he hasn’t taken a drink since it happened.”

“Astounding,” said J. Wilbur, killing his glass. “Absolutely astounding. Would you like some more Ovaltine?”

“No, I’m still working on it.”

J. Wilbur fixed another glass. He approached Coot and started to say something, but removed his eyeglasses and placed the stem in his mouth, holding a far-off but dignified look on his face.

Coot wished he wore eyeglasses so he could do this.

“Son,” said J. Wilbur. “You know, I’ve seen a lotta things in the heat of the moment. A lotta things. I once saw a man bark like a Labrador in Pittsburgh.”

“I’ve seen people act crazy before,” said Coot. “And I’ve seen bogus healings, more than I’d like to remember. This isn’t that. This is the real thing.”

J. Wilbur turned his glass of Ovaltine upside down and drained the whole thing in a few gulps. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and said, “These are exciting times, ain’t they, son?”

A spark filled the man’s eye, and the roundness of his face faded, and his age momentarily disappeared.

“These are exciting times.” He clapped once. “What’d you say your name was?”

Coot felt his thighs draw up into his bowels. He had gone the entire conversation without referring to E. P. And he didn’t want to start now.

“My name?” said Coot. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters. A young man comes to me speaking of the dead breathing anew, inheriting revitalized bodies. This young man has to have a name.”

“My name is Coot.”

J. Wilbur frowned. “Coot. What an interesting name. Is it a nickname?”

“Yessir. Short for Thurston Reginald McMillian the Third.”

“Really?”

“No. It’s just plain old Coot. I believe you knew my father.” Coot paused. The words felt heavy coming out of his mouth. He’d never said those words before. Not like that. Not in his entire life had he ever used the word father in relation to E. P. In fact, he’d never called anyone Father, not even the Almighty.

“Who was your daddy?” said J. Wilbur, smiling.

Coot swallowed a sip of Ovaltine. It was too late to turn back now. “E. P. Willard, sir.”

J. Wilbur let out a single laugh. He slapped his knee and leaned forward to look into Coot’s face. He seemed to be studying Coot. “Why, I’ll be dog!” the man said. “I thought you looked familiar. Why, you look just like him, boy. Eddie Willard, your father? The Eddie Willard?”

“The one and only.”