“Sure,” I say, although I’m beginning to think Mr. Mailman and I speak mutually incompatible languages. “And I’ll make sure I leave my number for you so we can set up Mrs. Ray’s appointment.”

He scribbles on a scrap of glossy advertising flyer. “Hate these things. Everybody hates the Valpaks. Can’t stop ’em, though. Anyway, here’s the address. Sharon’ll be expecting you.”

I take the folded scrap from his hand. “Thanks. Be in touch soon.”

And he’s off, back down the gravel driveway, dodging puddles and whistling to himself. It’s a curious whistle, not really a song, but tuneful all the same, and there’s a touch of familiarity in it.

When I get inside, Sonia is still watching her cartoon.

“No, honey. Let’s turn this off for a while.”

“No!” she squeals.

There she is, Julia King, up on the screen in the time it takes me to locate the remote. She’s in a drab gray smock, long-sleeved and down to her ankles, even in this heat, and her hair is cut, which I don’t remember them doing to Annie of Mr. Blue Pickup Truck fame, but maybe they’ve changed something, introduced a new brand of humiliation into their ritual. Reverend Carl stands beside her, sober and sad, and begins reciting the relevant bits from the Pure’s manifesto.

“Look you not on your own self, but on others, as Christ did in taking upon himself the form of a servant, obedient unto death, even the death of the cross.”

And:

“If you suffer for righteousness’ sake, happy are you. For it is better, if the will of God be so, that you suffer. For this affliction, which endures but for a moment, is your key to eternal light and glory in the kingdom of heaven.”

Blah blah blah blah blah.

Sonia sits up, even more attentive than she was when the cartoons were on. “Julia?” she says.

I lie. “No. Just a girl who looks a little like her.” And I click the television off as Reverend Carl begins another of his rants.

“Come on—let’s get you ready. We’re going to see some new friends today.”

I do three things. First, get Sonia to brush her teeth for more than five seconds. Then I run to my own bathroom and spill toast and tea into the toilet. Then I unfold the scrap of advertising material my mailman gave me and read.

There’s an address. Also, a note.

Don’t be too surprised.

Chapter Thirty-eight

THIRTY-EIGHT

Sharon Ray’s house is more barn than actual house, a weathered wood structure that looks as if someone has beaten it with a giant ugly stick.

I follow twin dirt ruts from the road, past a vegetable garden the size of a small farm, and kill the engine behind a Jeep with vanity plates. The Virginia tags read IMPURE.