“Just a moment,” the nurse said. She got up and walked down the hall to room twenty-two. She returned with a large, well-built man.

“Is he any better?”

The doctor shook his head. In a professional whisper, he said, “Mr. Green, do you want me to tell you the truth?”

Joey thought, No!

“Yes,” he said.

“Dr. Henderson and I spent quite a while trying to restore what we call basic somatic balances. And we managed it. But there is no way of telling whether or not he will have the strength to overcome the shock, because he’s still in a very deep coma. There has been nothing to indicate that he will come out of it.”

“He can’t die,” Joey said.

“I’m afraid he can,” the doctor said, staring levelly. “We don’t know exactly the degree of the injury to the brain, but it’s very severe. You say his head struck the edge of a desk?”

“It looked that way.” Joey had blotted out the memory; now it returned, in a quick wave.

He’d been lying on the couch, trying to sleep, when he heard the explosion. For some reason, he knew what had happened. Within moments his trousers were on, and he was rushing down the gravel path, heart hammering, toward the church.

It had caught fire, and was burning, a deep orange against the night sky. Joey leaned against the radio tower, got his breath back, and saw that both the damage and the fire were relatively slight.

There was a jagged hole on the left side of the church.

He rushed to the door. It was locked. He screamed: “Reverend Mead! Reverend Mead!” and waited; then he kicked the ancient lock, broke it, and went inside.

The smoke was bad. He put a handkerchief to his mouth and walked to Reverend Mead’s study.

The old man was lying on the floor, silent and unmoving. A bright wash of blood covered his face.

Joey lifted him into his arms and walked back outside. By this time, people were gathering.

“Call an ambulance,” Joey said and waited eternities for the ambulance to come, while buckets quenched the small flames.

No one said much. Joey did not think of who had done this, or why: he thought only of getting the preacher to a hospital and curing him. He tried to stanch the wound, but was unsuccessful. Blood continued to flow. So he put his handkerchief against the gaping hole and pressed softly, and hoped he was doing the right thing.

Within an hour, the heavy doors of St. Vincent’s were pushed open (and they had to go to St. Vincent’s, there was no choice) and the preacher, under woolen blankets, was wheeled into the emergency room. There was no expression on his face.

Joey waited.

Later, they wheeled the preacher out and past the waiting room, and in a while they said that Joey could see him.