But there was far more exhilaration than regret in my defeat, if it could be called that. For now I could do what no human had ever done before, describe in my writings exactly what had happened during those last days in the life of Jesus, using authentic eyewitnesses as my sources. And for those whose eroding faith constantly needed reinforcement I could even reaffirm the miracle of the resurrection! That few might believe me, especially after my declarations on the Carson show, never entered my mind. All I could think about was getting back to my typewriter and tackling the manuscript of “The Christ Commission” once more—this time with no doubts clouding my mind.

Still, there was something bothering me. I couldn’t put my finger on it. What had I forgotten? The puzzle was nearly complete and the picture was plain to see, but a missing piece still marred the finished portrait. Who held it and where could I find it? I tried to concentrate even harder but the mind rebelled. Already overloaded, it had shut down.

After breakfast, I fell back on my cot and apparently dozed off, I don’t know for how long, before the sound of loud knocking awoke me. Joseph was at the door, looking weary and haggard, his skin the color of ashes. It was obvious that the pace and strain of our last few days had caught up with him as they had with me. Even so, the old man made a valiant effort at joviality.

“And how does the great investigator feel this morning?”

I groaned and returned to the cot, where he sat beside me. “As if I had a terrible hangover.”

“A hangover?” He frowned, shaking his head helplessly.

I tried to explain. “A hangover is a most repulsive and disabling condition, of both mind and body, in which one awakes after imbibing far too much wine during the previous night. It is a state of stupor for which there is no cure until the body has cleansed itself of the grape’s numbing chemicals.”

“You are familiar with this affliction through firsthand experience?” he asked solicitously.

“Oh, yes,” I admitted. “There was a time in my life, many years ago, when it was almost a daily occurrence.”

“No more?”

“No more,” I said positively.

“What made you stop inflicting such terrible punishment on yourself?”

“One morning I regained consciousness in jail, remembering nothing of the hours that had preceded my imprisonment. I could have been accused of murder, or any other crime imaginable, and not been able to deny it or prove that I had not been involved. Fortunately for me, I had only been arrested for drunkenness, but the experience frightened me so much that I never forgot it.”