The morning before I left, I sat down with Stefan to ask if he had chosen the next candidate for The Healing Project. Dozens of suggestions had poured in since our appearance on TV. It would take a long time to sort these new ones into priorities and future possibilities. Since Merry was on a maternity leave, for the first time he’d be doing that entirely on his own with situations that were unfamiliar, related in no way to him or us. Even given his driving desire to make amends, he felt like he was underwater in heavy current.

Julie and I hadn’t revealed the full scope of my own colossal flop at being a ministering angel to the survivors of Roman’s victim. I hadn’t asked Julie to lie, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell the whole truth. I thought of myself, hands on my knees, heaving in the weeds. Still, it more or less all worked out in the end, hadn’t it? I’d offered my help in sorting through the mail, but Stefan gently refused. Good for him, I thought.

More in the spirit of hopefulness than sage counsel, I said, “You’ll do fine. Just trust your instincts. You have good instincts.”

“Let the people figure out their own goals. You just be the listener and the facilitator,” Jep said. “You don’t have to influence. They know what they need. They’ll tell you if you give them room and just listen.”

I left them making coffee and went upstairs for my things.

By the time I came back downstairs with my overnight bag, Stefan was carrying his files into the den to spread them out on the big library table in there. He apologized again that he couldn’t go with me. Jep kissed me like I was his best girl, and then slipped something into the pocket of my coat. When I reached for my gloves later on, I almost laughed. It was one of his big silver coaching whistles, the kind that lets out a blast that could stop a train.