The minister glowered at him. “She can be. And she is.”

Wunder knew that the minister was unlikely to be wrong about his own wife’s mortality. But he unzipped his backpack and yanked out The Miraculous. He flipped it open to Entry #603 and thrust it across the desk.

“She was healed,” he said.

There was silence in the little room as the minister took off his large black-rimmed glasses and put on small, gold-rimmed reading glasses. He studied the page. He studied it for a long time, much longer than was necessary to read such a short entry.

“What is this?” he asked finally.

“She was healed,” Wunder insisted. It sounded like an accusation.

“It was a miracle,” Faye added. And Wunder found himself nodding, as if he agreed with her.

The minister didn’t answer. Maybe he didn’t hear. He was still staring down at The Miraculous.

“You made this?” he asked.

Wunder nodded. “I’m—I used to be a miracologist.” The minister glanced up, bushy eyebrows raised high in confusion. “I collected miracles.”

The minister went back to the book, turning the pages one by one, stopping for a moment at each entry.

“She did get well, you know,” he said. “For almost a year, she wasn’t in pain. And she remembered more, remembered me. The doctors had never seen anything like it. I never think about that really.” He took off his glasses and looked up, from Wunder to Faye and then back. “I did your sister’s funeral,” he said, pointing at Wunder.

“Yes,” Wunder said.

He pointed at Faye now. “What about you?”

“My grandfather died,” Faye said. “But you didn’t do any funerals for me. I don’t go to church here. And even if I did, I wouldn’t want you to anyway. You’re extremely unconsoling.”

As true as this was, Wunder thought it probably wasn’t the best time to bring it up.

The minister, however, nodded. “You’re right, you know!” he cried. “I was consoling once, I think. When Florence was alive. But now—” He held up his hands, empty, as if to show he had nothing.

“Why do you do it, then?” Faye asked.

“I started,” the minister said, “when I retired. I wanted to do something useful, and the Church had need of me. It is a hard task, to console the grieving when the ones they love are gone. But I did my best. Then Florence passed. I don’t do much consolation work these days. And I never go to the cemetery, unless I’m doing a funeral.”

Wunder thought of the rows of graves, always deserted, always silent. “Why not?” he asked.

“She’s not in the cemetery, you know,” the minister said. “And I know that’s as it should be; I know that she is somewhere far better. I do wish though”—he paused to glance behind him at the picture of the saint, a guilty look on his face—“I do wish there was a way she could be here too. I wish there was a way they could all be here.”