“Oh, baby, I heard he’d be through here by nine o’clock. And they say he can really heal.”

“I don’t … believe … none of that … bullshit!”

Mr. Redding says that, and goes into great whoops of coughing.

A lot of money in the plates tonight. The mission can go on. But some helpers have wives back home, trailer payments have to be met, others want satellite dishes. The healer requires nothing but a meal that will last him until the next meal. He gives them all the money except for the price of steak and eggs at a Waffle House and heads for the car. The road is mud. The tent is being taken down in the storm. The memory of the woman is on him and he doesn’t feel very close to God.

“Oh shit,” Mr. Redding says. “Oh damn oh hell oh shit.”

“Baby?” Flenco says. “Don’t you think you ought not be cussing so bad when you’re like this?”

“Li … iii … iiike what?” Mr. Redding spews out.

“When you’re coughing so bad and all. I bet if you’d quit smoking them cigarettes you wouldn’t cough so bad.”

She pats him on the back like she saw the respiratory therapist do and feels she knows a little about medicine.

“Oh crap,” Mr. Redding says. “Oh shit! ”