The ushers make another pass through the crowd and collect six dollars and fifty-two cents. The boy lies in the wheelchair, legs dangling. This child has never walked before. The mother has told the healer his history. He was born with spinal meningitis, his heart outside his body, and she said God only gave him one kidney. She said on the day she goes to her grave she will still owe hospital bills on him. The healer can see that the congregation thinks nothing is going to happen. He can almost read their faces, can almost read in their countenances the unsaid accusations: Ha! Unclean! Prove yourself! Make him walk!

The healer comes down from the podium. The fire of God is still in him. The wheels of the wheelchair are mired in the sawdust. The mother has already begun to feel what has come inside the tent. She faints, falls over. An uncle stands up. The healer lays his hands on.

“Now I said heal! I don’t give a damn! About what’s happening over there in Saudi Arabia! I don’t care what else You got on Your mind! You got to heal this boy! Either heal him or take him right now! Heal him! Or take him! We don’t care! He’s with You either way!”

The child wobbles in the wheelchair. The healer digs his fingers down deep into the flesh. More people stand up to see. The mother wakes up, moans, and faints again. The lightning cracks overhead and the lights go out and then come back on dim. The ushers are moving more quickly through the crowd. An aura of Presence moves inside the tent to where everybody feels it. The child grips the armrests of his chair. His feet dig for purchase in the sawdust. He cries out with eyes closed in a racked and silent scream.

“Yeah!” the healer shouts. “Didn’t believe! Look at him! Watch him walk!”

The boy struggles up out of the chair. People have come to his mother’s side with wet handkerchiefs and they revive her in time to witness him make his stand. He rises up on his wasted legs, the healer’s hands octopused on his head.

“Heal! Heal! Heal! Heal! Heal! Heal! Heal!

The boy shoves the hands away. The mother looks up at her son from the dirt. He takes a step. His spine is straight. He takes another step. People are falling to their knees in the sawdust. They are reaching for their purses and wallets.

Mr. Redding has to be taken outside because he is bothering the other customers. Flenco lets him lie on the seat of the truck for a while and fans him with a Merle Haggard album.

“Oh shit,” Mr. Redding says. “Oh arrrrgh.”

“It’s gonna be all right, baby,” Flenco says.

Mr. Redding is almost beyond talking, but he gasps out: “What do … you mean … it’s … gonna … be … all right?”