The paper said several hundred people had spontaneously had a revival as he preached a sermon while standing on the roof of a car.

She remembered Vern listening to this preacher on the truck radio every Wednesday night during her youth, sometimes seated in the truck cab by himself, staring through the windshield.

When she came to the part about the woman people called the harlot, she paused and felt a shiver run through her. She remembered overhearing people talk about this.

“Pete,” she said. “Do you believe people can come back from the dead?”

Pete was wearing a white undershirt, shaving his face in the mirror. “What are you talking about?”

The grease in the skillet began to crackle.

“You know, like a miracle?” she said.

“I don’t know,” said Pete. “Why?”

The crackling sound of a skillet awakened the motel room and caused Stringbean to sit before Ruth’s feet with a look of importance on her face.

Ruth ignored the hungry animal and kept reading the paper to herself.

Stringbean licked her jowls and positioned herself a few inches closer to the skillet. Her body was still. Her eyes were enormous. She touched her nose against Ruth’s hand just to remind her that she was alive and hadn’t eaten in over eight hours.

Ruth patted Stringbean’s head without turning from the newspaper.

When the eggs were done frying, they sat at the small table. She loved this motel. She loved everything about it. She loved the mermaids on the wall. She loved the ceiling fan and the two-burner stove. The hot showers gave her life purpose. She felt something swell in her chest. She didn’t know what this feeling was, but it was good.

Pete wasted no time digging into his food. But something about this felt wrong.

“Wait, Pete,” she said.

He stopped eating. He wore a bewildered look. Grease slid down his chin. Stringbean also looked at her with a grave face.

“Ain’t you gonna say grace?” she said.

“Grace? Over breakfast?”

“Don’t you think we should start praying and saying grace, now that we’re married?”

“Grace?”

She folded her hands.

Pete placed his fork on his plate and wiped his hands. He folded them together and cleared his throat. “What do I say?” he said.

“I don’t know, just say something graceful. Pray that you can find a job today.”

“Um, okay . . .” But he couldn’t seem to find the words.

She interjected. “Thanks for everything . . . We just feel really happy about the way things are going lately. Keep up the good work.”

She opened her eyes to see that Pete’s eyes were still shut tightly.

“Pete?” she said. “You have anything you’d like to add?”

“God, it’s me, Pete. Give my best to Mama, and Paul, and Louisville.”

Silence followed. Only the sound of Stringbean’s stomach gurgling could be heard.