“We will soon be discussing the de—” I started to say demise. “…the history of Christianity in the U.S. during this century, and I think it would be instructive for them to interact with a practicing Christian. There aren’t many around here to choose from.”

“Yes, I’ve been informed of that.”

“I thought they would find your story particularly intriguing.”

“How many people would be viewing this conversation?”

“Just my students. That’s about sixty people.”

“It wouldn’t be available worldwide?”

“No. Only to my class.” And anyone they cared to show it to.

“I could speak about my faith?”

“Of course. I would want you to.”

She paused, seemingly considering my invitation. “Yes.” She drew the word out as if convincing herself. “I think I would like to do that. On what day?”

“How about a week from Monday?” I hated waiting so long, but I didn’t have much choice. I couldn’t bring her in during the upcoming week’s midterms. “I’ll send a car to pick you up. I can even give you a tour of Dallas.”

“That would be fine. Thank you for inviting me.”

She turned, asked someone how to end the communication, and disappeared from my view.

I leaned back against my office chair. I wanted desperately to dash to Fort Worth and show her the message my father had received from her grandfather. But that, I had concluded, wasn’t prudent.

One step at a time. I had to win her trust. And, in truth, I did look forward to having her in my class. She was a cultural specimen my students would never encounter again: a living microcosm of the world of faith, raised apart from the modern world.

I picked up my cup of tea. “Alistair, what can you tell me about the Inisi tribe from Papua New Guinea?”

The next morning Sabin opened his front door to find two men in business suits. In an age of virtual reality, people rarely visited others’ actual homes; dropping by unexpectedly was unheard of.

“Is Abigail Caldwell at this address?”

He regarded them suspiciously. “Who’s asking?”

“We’re from the U.S. Department of Justice. Is she at this address?”

“Is there a problem?”

“We need to discuss that with her, sir.”

Sabin frowned. “One minute.”

He called upstairs. Abby came down, barefoot, in khaki shorts and a T-shirt.

“Abby, you have visitors.”

Her face brightened. “Really? Who?”

“Federal agents.”

They sat in the living room. Sabin offered the men coffee; they refused. The taller agent, a man with a five o’clock shadow, started the questioning. “Are you aware of the legal ramifications of what you said on the Global Sunrise program on the morning of May 17?”

“What legal ramifications? Did I say something wrong?” Abby looked over at Sabin, who shrugged.

The shorter agent spoke. “What you said would in most quarters be construed as hate speech.”