E. P. peeked inside the tent flap. He was checking the size of the crowd. It wasn’t a big crowd. A far cry from the multitudes Coot had preached for in Emporia.

Blake was standing on the stage, shouting into a megaphone at the crowd. He was wearing a white shirt that was drenched in sweat. He was warming up the audience for Coot.

“Saints of God,” Blake hollered, “a generation base and wicked, seeking solace in times of trial, shall you be found ready when the good Lord calleth? Or shall we be caught looking when the Lord throws a final strike?”

That made Coot smile. He knew Blake had only said that for Coot’s benefit.

Blake always introduced Coot before each service using the growling voice he was known for. And after a long introduction, Blake finally got to Coot’s cue. The crowd went nuts.

“You’re on,” said E. P. Then he smacked Coot on the back of the head. “Get your head out of the stands, boy.”

E. P. pushed Coot forward, and Coot stumbled through the canvas tent flaps. He looked back at E. P., who glared through a sliver of daylight between the tent flaps.

Last week Coot’s collections had been small. E. P. had beaten Coot with his belt so hard it left purple marks on his shoulder blades.

Coot took center stage. There were sixty-two people in the audience. That’s what Blake had told him earlier. Each looked at Coot. They were Kansans, white-haired farmers, tired housewives, miserable migrants, those infected with dust pneumonia. They all met Coot with curious faces. And he could practically hear what they were thinking. He’d been preaching since his seventh birthday when he was ordained by E. P.

He’d spent enough time on stages to know what his people were thinking. They were scared. That’s what was at the core of these people. They were terrified of the dust that hovered above the world. They drank the dust, ate the dust. The dust suffocated their children and wilted their food. He was used to their dry faces. And he was used to preaching the money right out of their pockets like E. P. taught him to do.

Coot closed his eyes tight. He reached one hand into the air and made a fist. He squeezed the air so tight that his knuckles went pale. Drama was what he wanted here. The silent kind. The longer you waited, the bigger the reaction.

He held his hand high and waited. Silence fell on the room. Bubbling chatter turned to stillness. And even though Coot’s eyes were closed, he knew every eye was on his fist.

He drew in a sharp breath. More waiting.

Silence fell over the crowd so that Coot could hear them breathing. A woman in the back corner was wheezing.