Refining Fire

Prologue Angels who are resurrected personages have bodies of flesh and bones--For instance, Jesus said, “Handle me and see, for a spirit hath not flesh and bones, as ye see me have.” ...The angels reside in the presence of God, where all things for their glory are manifest, and are continually before the Lord. --Doctrine and Covenants 129:1 & 2, 130:5 (paraphrased) April 19, 2045        Phil Richardson swayed with dizziness. His hands were tied behind his back, his arms crushed between his body and the back of a metal folding chair. His ankles ached, swollen where rope cut into them. He had a blindfold on so tight that his head pounded. He couldn't see light. His sense of smell told him he was in an old wooden barn used for storing alfalfa hay and not animals. Time blurred; he didn't know how long he had been here, if it was day or night, how often his captors had questioned him. What his captors wanted had floored him: temple recommends. For a price. Once Article 28 passed, it was hard enough keeping a few U.S. temples open and maintain entrance restrictions. Precautions unneeded in previous decades had been set in place. Phil was under sacred covenant that he would never allow the unworthy to enter their holy sanctuaries, and as second counselor in the Liahona Stake Presidency, he possessed final authority to certify a recommend. His captors needed not only his signature but his thumbprint--and his cooperation later on to keep the unholy sale a secret. The sum they offered initially was large, but not tempting. He'd rather give up his life. He only hoped he wouldn't have to. “I say we shoot him and get us a easier one.” “You know what Al went through to pull off this job, C.J.” There were two voices; one was scratchy and hoarse, the other had an odd squeak on certain vowels, or if he seemed excited or tense. “Yeah, but he ain't so easy as the others.” That was the scratchy voice; the other had called him C.J. Phil tried to make a distinction, listening for the squeaky one's actual name, but it seemed that C.J.'s only appellations for his friend were unpleasant and foul. Phil decided to think of him as “Squeaky,” instead. “Al said--” Phil turned to their voices. “Even with valid recommends, you could never impersonate good enough Mormons to get in.” A fist hit his jaw, hard. He lost his balance and fell, knocking over the chair. Dirt. Dirt in his mouth, and stickiness. Blood. A kick struck his back near the kidneys. Phil moaned. It had to be a steel-toed boot. The chair clattered, kicked across the barn floor. Another kick landed in his belly. This version of torture was no refined art, but pain was pain and he hurt. “Sign the paper or die, freak. Forget the money. I'm tired of being nice.” Phil said, “You call this nice?” Patience, and all hope for a diplomatic resolution, faded as pain increased. “Tell me why you want to get in the temple!” “Listen,” said the scratchy voice--C.J. “Make it easy on yourself and cooperate. We'll get in with or without your help, and you won't corner the market no more, either way. You might as well be on the side what's gonna win.” Another blow struck his ribs. It felt like a metal pipe. Phil spat out, “I'm on the Lord's side, and He will win!” He was kicked again. “Them secret powers ain't doing you no good now, are they?” The squeaky voice laughed, an ugly sound. More blows to his ribs, knees, head, and torso followed. Fervent prayer was all that helped Phil not to cry out in pain, terrified for Beverly and his children, unwilling to show them either how much it hurt or the depth of his terror. Silently he gave thanks these men hadn't gotten his family too. Yet. C.J. said, “I told you, stupid, they bleed just like anybody else.” “Of course I bleed! I'm human, and I don't have 'secret powers,'“ Phil said. He busied his mind trying to figure out if he'd heard the squeaky one's name. “I seen it,” Squeaky said. “They got mind control. Jeff's been telling stories for months. Down at the store.” “Now look who's crazy,” Phil mumbled. Pain swirled through him, a red haze. “It's just the Priesthood,” he added. As though holding the Priesthood was 'just' anything. I take it for granted more than I should. Could I control minds? If I had to? His memory searched for a scripture reference to it, but drew a blank. “He said something.” Another kick, not so hard; a warning. “Something priest stuff. Cough it up, you--” The squeaky one launched a string of descriptive words regarding his low opinion of Phil. “The powers of the priesthood cannot be handled or controlled except on conditions of righteousness,” Phil quoted through his fog of pain, surprised the words came clearly. “It isn't secret. It's the power of God to act in His name, and the Lord won't allow its abuse. If I did confer it on you, it might damn your souls to an eternal hell. Is that what you want?” “Ain't no hell but the one you're living in,” the squeaky one said. “Give it to me now.” He called to his partner, triumphant. “I told you. That's way better than them dumb storehouses Al--” “Shut up!” the scratchy voice hissed, with a curse. Storehouses? A vague thought connected. “Come on, give it to us--now.” Squeaky. “It won't work unless you--” “Now!” the squeaky voice yelled, too high-pitched. “I have to lay my hands on your head, so you'll have to untie me. Besides, how'd you expect me to sign all those papers with a blindfold on?” “The idiot thinks we'll untie him!” C.J. hooted. Squeaky joined in, with some expletives. “Like we gonna let him see our faces before he takes the oath.” Phil didn't like how that sounded. But he kept going. “Listen, it's not a repeat-after-me chant. I'm serious, I have to lay my hands on your head.  That's how it's done.” He had zero intent of conferring the Holy Priesthood of God on these two creeps, but it was true he'd need his hands untied, and then he might have a fighting chance. Recommends...storehouses...it came together. They might not want to enter the temples at all--they wanted access to the Bishop's Storehouses: food and goods without price. Their membership had recently switched over to a trial system of economics, cooperative, united in purpose, sharing commodities equally for only the price of serving one another. Falsifying valid membership would potentially give these creeps a free ride. The security breach could even shut down the system...and maybe all the remaining U.S. temples. Phil's mouth went dry. He had to escape, tell someone of this new danger. Maybe cooperation was best; if only he got out alive, said anything to please them, maybe he could warn the higher authorities. “If I sign, will you let me go?” He fought off the nausea of pain and terror building in his gut. “Sure.” It wasn't at all soothing. “I don't believe you,” Phil said. Squeaky spoke. “You can't go home looking like that. You'll have to wait a while. And my feet hurt from kicking you, so forget the money.” “I understand,” Phil said. He wouldn't have taken money in any case. “I don't trust you,” C.J. said. “There's a vow of secrecy first. Then the initiation rites.” Squeaky gave his ugly laugh. “Vows?” “Yeah. You blab and we slit your throat. You and your whole family.” Bile rose in his throat. It stung and burned. Secret oaths and combinations. He swallowed. “I don't like those terms.” “I suppose you could sign without the vow.” Phil was silent. Yeah, and shoot me before the ink dries. An accidental laugh from C.J. confirmed that thought. “Wait, do we still get that Priesthood?” Phil heard C.J. give the squeaky one a shove. Then more cussing. Phil wondered about that; if coerced, he could make something up that sounded official but was in fact mumbo jumbo. That was a definite possibility. He might still have a shot at escape. He tried a different tangent. He couldn't take their 'vows'--no matter what they were. Best to get them off the subject. “Mind control, is that what you want--to control Al? That's easy, we do it all the time for kicks.” “I told you,” Squeaky gloated. “Show me how.” C.J. said, “Al won't be happy about this...” “We control Al's head, we make him happy. See?” “Stick to the plan!” More cursing ensued as both voices launched vulgar insults about the other's prowess. As if on cue, Phil put in, “See? I just made you two fight. Easy.” “He gives me the creeps,” Scratchy said, and poked Phil in the belly with the metal pipe-thing. It stayed there long enough this time for Phil to recognize the shape: a double-barreled shotgun. Despair set in. Of course they would be armed. He was getting beaten with a shotgun? Most likely loaded? They weren’t just mean, they were stupid. He fought down a new surge of horror. They could have blown his face off already, by accident! “Just  kidding, all right? If I had mind control, wouldn't I make you let me go?” “He has a point,” Squeaky said. “Don't mess with me, man!” C.J. gave Phil's belly another poke. Suddenly, Phil felt filled with light. The Spirit took over his words and spoke through him, as it often did when he administered blessings. The stories of Alma and Amulek in prison came to his mind. The walls split in two and crumbled, and they walked out free men. “I have authority from the Most High God, that if it was His will, I could break these bonds and strike you dead where you stand. That is no secret power, it is the very Priesthood you have mocked.” He felt the truth of it surge through his bones. His mind became clear and lucid, and his fear dissipated, replaced by renewed faith. God was with him. He paused. There was something else. Before Alma and Amulek were imprisoned...worse things had happened, and the Lord hadn’t stopped it. [QUOTE: sometimes....lord allows righteous to perish.’] He felt dread and strength of the Spirit simultaneously. “The choice to set me free me is yours. Release me, escape with me, and rid your lives of evil. You can still be saved in the kingdom of heaven. But if not, know this: if you kill me, you shed innocent blood of the Lord's Anointed, and shall be held accountable before God at the last day.” “He's freakin' glowing,” Squeaky said. “I prophesy that if you kill me, your lives shall end the same way you end mine, even as Abinadi cursed the priests of King Noah, who took his life. I recommend you don't choose anything too painful. Would you like to know what happened to the priests of Noah?” His Irish streak couldn't help tossing in the last two sentences. “Why should I care?” C.J. said. “Because every last one of them was burned alive after they burned Abinadi...hunted down like animals and burned the same way. It wasn’t at the stake, either, it was more like they beat him with burning sticks until he was dead.” “I'm outta here!” Squeaky squeaked. C.J. yelled, “Don't leave me alone with this freak!” Running footsteps sounded, and a heavy door opened and slammed shut. Then, only the sound of angry breathing. “So do you want to know why?” “Why what?” the voice was terse. “Why the priests were hunted down. What they did.” “No.” There was no questioning that response. Phil went silent. In a moment a thought wafted into Phil's mind: Call him Clovis. Phil's hesitated; his voice came out hushed. It formed into a fuller thought. “Why are you so afraid of me, Clovis?” He heard something heavy hit the ground--the shotgun? and a scrambling to pick it back up. “Everyone calls me C.J. Only my mama called me Clovis.” Phil veiled his surprise. “The Lord told your name to me.” He felt a glow of pleasure. That was a far more specific revelation than the general feelings and impressions he was used to. “I don't believe in no God,” C.J. said, and spat. “The J is for...” Phil waited, hoping he wasn't asking too much. No; it came like a whisper. Jefferson. “Jefferson,” Phil said aloud. The man's breath came heavy, loud, angry. Phil continued, feeling his way through the impressions coming to his mind. “I remind you of your father, and you hate him...” That feeling struck his gut, a lightning bolt of unchecked pain, sensation more than words. It was terror, revulsion, disgust; so powerful and miserable a revelation of the abuse this man had suffered that he failed to fight off tears, filled with unmistakable compassion for his captor. It surprised and awed him that forgiveness could come so fast and be so complete. Yet it was. He said, “I can't help reminding you of him, but C.J., I'm not him. Please. Let me help you. Untie me and come back with me. We can help you. Don't worry about the vows you took--we can work that all out. I'm sure of it. Listen. I would never--C.J.--what he did was cruel and wrong.” Phil paused. “He--” “Shut up! Shut up! I don't believe in no freakin' psychics neither!” C.J. yelled. A shot went off. Phil's body jumped as a shower of pellets struck his abdomen. His legs curled up to his belly. It couldn't be a direct hit, but it stung, badly. “Did you mean to do that, or did you just miss?” The man retreated in a run and the door opened. Phil cried out, “Wait! Help me! Free yourself of--” “Any more funny stuff, freak, and I'll shoot to kill!” The barn door slammed. Silence. Phil lay on the hard cold dirt. Had he pushed too hard? No, he only said the words he felt strongly prompted to say. C.J.'s reaction...something had gone wrong. But what? Phil had to conclude it wasn't his own fault. What to try next, he didn't know. Pain forced all his attention. His shirt clung to his skin, sticky with blood. His ribs hurt far worse than the sting in his belly; they must be broken. He fought the pain, praying any bleeding would stanch on its own. It should; the shot couldn't have penetrated too deep. He had no way of knowing. Soon drowsiness overtook him and he slept.   #   Phil woke to a soft glow, confused. Was his blindfold off? Diffused light seemed directly in front of him. His immortal soul longed to reach the its source with a nameless, deep-rooted hunger. Slowly he understood. Death. His first thought wasn't to wonder, or concern for his family or any of the things he expected he would think of at this moment. It was: If I have to be a martyr, couldn't it be more...spectacular? Bleeding to death on a barn floor was hardly a heroic way to go. He hadn't gone far when he felt yanked backwards, hearing words that resonated with deep familiarity. Phil panicked: he was going the wrong way--why? He saw his body below as it lay on a barn floor in a pool of blood. Next to it stood a shining being in pure white robes. Light filled the barn. The next moment, he felt zipped back into his body. He sensed every living cell, from the skin on his toes to every bone in his feet, to his ankles, and upward. In perhaps an instant, a wealth of information about his body's systems flooded his intelligence. His mind processed information faster than he knew was possible. It was wholeness, communion, oneness; a sense that after eons of existence, he had completed the final stage in an eternal design. He filled his lungs. His brain sorted each separate scent, labeling. Another moment told him breathing was a pleasant habit, but unnecessary. His captors had taken his glasses. Yet now he could see in more perfect detail than when he was younger and had no need of them. Colors were clear and sharp, and it seemed there were more of them. The straw seemed to sparkle. The being of light leaned over him, smiling. It was a man with a young-looking face. Phil exclaimed, “You're an angel!” The being laughed softly. “Yes.” The one thing Phil did not feel was pain. He sat up easily, no longer broken and bruised. Even the arthritis pain in his left hand was gone. Not dead, then; healed? A near-death-experience? He felt young. “This is incredible,” Phil said. His wrists had no bruises, although rope had rubbed and chafed the skin raw. A large bloody hole rent his shirt where the buckshot had gone through. He lifted his shirt and found smooth, new skin. On impulse, he pushed up his right sleeve to find the large scar from when he slipped off the baling machine, twenty years ago. It was gone. He looked at the angel. “What just happened to me?” “Welcome to immortality, Phillip,” the angel said, smiling. Resurrected? Phil was dumbfounded. He stretched his left hand. It flexed easily. Knowledge of every tendon, ligament, and muscle in his hand flowed into his brain. “I am Stephen.” The being raised him to his feet. “But why was I resurrected?” “You are greatly blessed that this gift is given you. I was separated over two hundred years, and it was most unpleasant,” Stephen said. “Were you the Stephen who was stoned in the Bible?” “Of course not. But I was named for him.” “Of course not?” “That Stephen is very busy and is assigned to Europe. Were you expecting someone famous? Moroni? Father Adam, perhaps Joseph Smith? I have the authority and I am perfectly qualified.” “No, I wasn't 'expecting' anyone at all. Forgive me, I'm just very confused.” This was not going anything like angelic visitations recorded in scripture. Phil blinked, sorting it out. He had half-expected that death might be a result of the kidnapping. The other half hoped he would get free. But he never expected this. “You couldn't have helped me escape, instead?” “We cannot underestimate the power of agency. Clovis exercised his free will and choice. I gave you his name; he chose not to believe or to help you. I fear for his soul.” “You gave me the name?” Phil asked. “It got me shot!” “No, Phillip. The name was sufficient; the Spirit confirmed this to his soul. He was not entirely as past feeling as he seemed. He rejected that witness. I'm terribly sorry. But it is done; and these men shall not retain your body for sport.”  “I just want to go home.” Phil was plaintive. Homesickness struck with greater yearning than any feeling he had ever known. “I miss my wife and my children.” The angel regarded him with compassion. “I'm afraid that won't be possible, Phillip.” “But why?” Tears welled up. He was acutely aware of the formation of each tear, and each pathway they took down his cheeks. It was distracting enough that he stopped. “Living with them as an immortal is neither allowed nor recommended at this time.” “If I was dead, I could visit them in spirit. I won't get to see them at all?” “There are commandments which you must learn and keep before any such visits may be allowed. Your family must not know of this; yet you are far more able to protect and help them now than you know.” “Won't my kidnappers go after my family, when they don't find my body?” “Your family is safe. Clovis and Jack shall know exactly what happened to you.” Stephen grinned. So Squeaky's name was Jack, after all. “Why can those miscreants know and not my own family?” “Your family--” Stephen began, when the barn door opened behind Phil. It was night. “Welcome them,” Stephen instructed. “Can they see you?” Phil whispered. “They shall see both of us. In the meantime, try not to glow.” “What?” Stephen put a finger to his lips and motioned Phil to turn around. He turned and said, “Hello, C.J., Jack,” nodding to each in turn, instinctively knowing which was who before either spoke. The door creaked to a close. Jack said, “What the hell! How'd you get free?” He aimed a semi-automatic at Phil's chest. Brilliant light flooded the barn, and Stephen spoke in a voice of rumbling thunder: “Thou shalt not murder the Lord's Anointed! A curse is upon you for rejecting the Holy Spirit, and the word of God taught you in your youth!” The angel floated several feet above them in the air. “Cease to torment the Saints of God, or suffer the fulness of His wrath to be poured out upon your heads!” The guns dropped, and both men fell to their knees, covering their faces. The semi-automatic discharged and a shower of bullets ricocheted through the barn. Jack recovered first and reached for his gun. “It's a trick!” “What do I do?” Phil called. Stephen's voice spoke to his mind: There is no danger. Let the bullets pass through. Jack fired a steady stream. C.J. fired wild, aiming first at the angel, then at Phil. Let the--what? When the volley hit his chest, he understood. The bullets passed through without harm; the sensation reminded him of being stitched up while numb. He grabbed the shotgun barrel, yanked it out of C.J.'s hands, and tossed it away. C.J. curled up and cried, “Don't hurt me, I believe!” Jack's gun clicked, empty. “Why can't I kill you?” His voice squeaked as he reloaded. “Because C.J. already did.” Phil was enjoying this. “What?” C.J. uncurled and sat up. “You some kind of ghost?” Jack fumbled with the clip. “No. Thanks to C.J., I am now an immortal being, with more 'special powers' than you ever dreamed of.” “What'd you do to him?” Jack kicked the man on the floor, insulting his intelligence with a plethora of curses. “Nothin'!” C.J. kicked back with one foot. “He scared me with some hocus-pocus garbage and took a stray shot in the belly. It weren't no direct hit.” “There's a mess of blood over there.” Jack eyed Phil's belly. Phil took the semi-automatic. “But nothing underneath.” He raised his shirt just enough to prove it, then gestured toward Jack with the gun. “Bet this has a nasty kick.” “Don't mess with that!” Phil aimed for the rafters, pulled the trigger and emptied the clip on a beam. Chunks and slivers of broken wood rained down on them. He tossed the gun aside. C.J. faced the angel. “I didn't mean to kill him! Lord have mercy!” Stephen glared down. “Murder, not mercy, was in your heart. You left him to die. You failed to check on his condition or tend to his injury. You have shed innocent blood, and I fear it shall go hard for you in the Final Judgment.” Time to go, Stephen's voice came to Phil. Come up here. How? Directions came to his mind, and he moved air currents under his feet, using them to ascend to Stephen. “Thou shalt no longer destroy the Saints of God,” Stephen bellowed. “If thou wilt of thyself be destroyed, so be it!” The next Phil knew, they were outside, on top of the barn roof. Phil's heart pounded. He sat down, gasping for air. “Why are you panting?” “Adrenaline?” “Inform your body to slow its systems.” “Oh.” His heart rate slowed as he commanded. “I get it.” Stephen stared down at the roof. “They mean to say they killed you and destroyed your body, to appease their boss' anger.” “How are you getting this?” Phil said. “Can't you see inside?” “It's a solid roof.” “Try.” Phil made a frustrated noise and stared. Barn shingles. “I've forgotten; you have much to learn. Regard the obstacle. Look through the spaces between the molecules, not the particles themselves.” Right, Phil thought. Look at individual molecules. “When you are first learning, it is helpful to imagine the interior.” Phil kept staring. Shingles. “I can't do it. I'm sorry.” “You shall have to practice.” “So what are they saying?” Phil said. “You can't hear them, either?” Steven asked. “No.” Phil felt he was turning out less-than-expected. But Stephen only nodded. “Clovis is arguing with Jack. He says, what's the point of killing them if they come back to life?” He laughed. “That was the concept we wished to teach.” “What happens now?” Phil asked. “That is uncertain.” Stephen's brow furrowed. “The  rumors that follow should frighten them enough to cease the storehouse raids. I hope the kidnappings will stop.” “There's more than me?” “I'm afraid so.” “I hadn't heard of any.” “This group of rebels arrived recently from Nauvoo, having failed in their efforts there.” “The men sounded local.” “The heads of their organization are not. The more evil of them may yet torture their victims without the mercy of death. Still--your disappearance and the rumors surrounding it will divide their ranks. They will not be as strong hereafter.” “We should have been warned!” The angel hushed him. “Clovis swears to spread the truth. Jack's beginning to agree. I shall help them.” A thud sounded, and the men ran out yelling. Jack said as they ran, “It's like vampires or aliens or the undead!” “Whatever it was, I don't ever want to see one again!” Their voices faded into the distance. “What did you do?” Phil asked. He grinned. “I helped that broken beam fall to the ground and shorted the electrical circuits.” “What happens to my family?” His heart ached. Alive, yet separated...Beverly... “They are protected. If you came to them, they would be too calm, seem to know something. Spies may be watching . Surely you can see the danger.” Phil nodded, anguished. “As difficult as it seems now, the easiest path never promotes the most growth.” “I'll appreciate anything I'm allowed to do for them.” Phil shivered in the night breeze. “You're also cold?” Stephen said. “Aren't you? It's freezing out here.” The angel sighed. “You require physical orientation,” Stephen said. “Come. I shall take you to One who is a far greater teacher than I.” His eyes sparkled. Phil prickled with excitement and worry at once. “You realize you must ascend to the Father before much longer, Phillip.” Ascend to the Father. The words penetrated Phil's soul with electric fire. Each day since his baptism he strove to live well, to be prepared for that eventual day. His heart raced in spite of himself. “I fear you ought to check yourself over for stray shot. I'm not certain whether it all dislodged...generally one is buried properly and...” Phil hardly heard him. Stephen stopped and touched Phil's shoulder. “Fear not. You have laid down your life for His sake. The Father is well-pleased.” “I hope so.” Phil tingled with anticipation. “It shall not seem long before you are reunited in peace,” Stephen said. He stretched his hand out to Phil and smiled. “Time is far less meaningful where we shall be. Come.” Phil took his hand, and they were away.   October 24, 2046 Phil sat on the roof of his own stable watching Beverly and the children exercise the horses. It was a brilliant fall day with terrific weather. Peter turned Teancum, Phil's dappled gray stallion, in tight figure-eights. Phil was amazed by his son's expertise. Jordan and Kellie rode together on their pony, squealing with delight as Andrew chased after them on his mare. Beverly spurred Abish, her sorrel mare, into the chase, but Peter held the anxious stallion steady. Phil tapped a folded piece of paper against his palm. After seventeen months, he had received permission to give them word of his safety. The note encouraged Beverly to be faithful, and assured her of his continued love, although he was not yet able to be with her. He longed to hold her, brush the hair from her face, kiss her passionately... Yet he knew that anger gnawed at Beverly's faith day by day. He ever prayed that she would turn her grief over to her Savior. Still she clung to it. This work was for Jesus alone; laying her terrible burden at His feet would speed them back together, but until then, she wouldn't be ready to hear the whole truth. He hoped the note would help. Andrew opened the far gate, leaning sideways from the saddle. The twins whooped with joy as all broke into a gallop. Two dogs ran after, barking. Phil focused long-range as they galloped away. Beverly shone in the golden light. He could cross that distance in less than a beat of her heart. But not today. Though he knew they were sealed for eternity, and this time apart would one day seem brief, he ached with longing. With effort, he turned to the house. Phil stood and walked across the roof, floated his body easily to the ground and started for the house. An old black Labrador appeared, sniffing the air, staring, confused. He growled and gave a short, low bark. Phil slowly made himself visible to the dog. “Bobbsey, it's me. Hush.” Bobbsey wagged his tail and was quiet. Phil pet him. “Good boy.” A thought came to him. “Is that hip still bothering you?” The dog limped with arthritis, which modern medication hadn't cured. Phil laid his hands on the dog's head. Moments later, he said, “It shouldn't trouble you any more, old boy.” Thank you, he heard in his mind. The dog licked Phil's hand and trotted off, tail wagging. The limp was gone. Phil went invisible again. I’m going inside to get the tape now, he prayed. Be careful, came the instant answer. He pulled his body through the glass pane of the back door. It was alluring to touch the familiar things of his own home; he felt a powerful urge to sniff Beverly's pillow, wrap his arms around it, and bask in her warm, sweet scent. But it might leave traces of his presence. He was strong, and held back. He found the tape in the desk drawer. He snapped off a piece and returned it, careful not to move the smallest molecule of dust out of place as he went. Then he stopped short. A fresh loaf of homemade bread rested on the kitchen counter. Tears stung his eyes as the scent beckoned him to take at least this small memento; eating was a pleasant occasional experience. He thought about how he and Beverly used to share the heels, fresh out of the oven. Closer inspection showed both ends of the loaf were missing. Phil smiled. That made it easier. Which of his children picked up that trait after him? Or had she taken both ends for herself? He slid his body easily through the glass, but the tape stuck to the inside of the door. He hadn’t worked with sticky molecules before. He grunted with consternation and focused harder; the tape came through. He taped the note to the center of the door. “Don't forget to erase fingerprints,” a familiar voice called. Phil jumped. Stephen stood in the yard, holding one of the barn cats. “What are you doing here?” “I was sent to keep you company at a difficult moment. Fingerprints?” “Right, fingerprints,” Phil said, mildly disturbed Stephen was sent as backup. But if he was less strong, he'd have eaten that bread, or held Beverly's pillow in his arms and wept until they came home. This was his first test. He looked at the paper fibers on a microscopic level. There was a thumbprint. Tsk. He rearranged the molecular surface of the paper to wipe it out. The cat lay nestled in Stephen's arms, purring loudly, kneading his forearm with her paws. “That's Micah,” Phil said, puzzled. “She never lets anybody hold her.” “I know.” Stephen scratched the cat between its ears and down its spine. “Congratulations, little mama. Five kittens coming soon,” he cooed. Phil muttered. “That one's always hiding. Beverly must not have caught her yet for spaying.” Stephen let the cat down gently. “Thank you, Micah. Take good care of your babies, and you shall let Beverly catch you next time, understand?” The cat meowed and sauntered back to the barn, calico tail high in the air. Phil filled his lungs with the familiar, crisp spring air of the barnyard, anxious to leave while he could still manage to tear himself away. The two ascended together. He and Beverly had fought the morning of his kidnapping over how to discipline Andrew. She refused to kiss him goodbye. She agonized over it now, he knew. Neither knew it was their last chance for--who knew how much longer. He wept with the emptiness of leaving.   September 15, 2047 Phil stood by a bubbling stream and watched Alyssa Stark whittle a stick into a sharp point. Her blond hair was ragged, matted; one leg of her jeans was torn to shreds and bloodstained. Phil reached the fish before she did and spoke to them. “The Lord Jesus your Creator asks you to feed this girl who approaches.” He peered into the water. He felt a volunteer in there; a faint twinge of fish-fear registered in his mind, with a vague sense of obedience. He hoped it was enough. Moments later Alyssa reached the spot, took aim and thrust the spear into the water. She dragged the point along the muddy bottom and drew it out. A catfish wriggled on the end of it. Phil thanked him. It tried his patience to watch her try to light a fire. He itched to grab the knife and stone away from her and do it himself--which would scare her right out of her skin, never mind the added danger that she might recognize him. He had little practice in disguising his looks. Finally, a tiny spark lit. A breeze whipped up and blew it out. I suggest trying pine needles, Phil thought, careful not to make it too overpowering. “Should just eat this thing raw,” she mumbled. She rubbed her arms for warmth in the chill breeze. Phil realized she was cold. He'd forgotten about cold. Alyssa hunted for tinder, and returned with a handful of pine needles. She would never realize it wasn't her idea. The next spark ignited the needles, and with a little help from Phil, it kept burning. Soon she had eaten roasted fish. Night fell. Alyssa sat by the fire, quiet, warming herself, staring into the flames. You could try going home, Phil suggested. Alyssa tended the fire. Phil felt tangible anticipation in the air. Much future happiness hung on this choice, including that of his second son. She wasn't thrilled. Home was hardly the same word to her that it was to him. Yet it could be, in time. The penetrating voice of the Spirit said, “Go now.” Alyssa jumped. Again the Spirit spoke. “Go now. Go ye out from Babylon, for the hour of her destruction is at hand!” The urgency in the voice thrilled him. Alyssa stood as if to bolt. She bounced on her legs. “Who's there?” she asked, drawing her knife, looking in all directions. “I need rest before I go. Sleep. And I need daylight. I won't know where I'm going. I need water, and food. Let's be practical here.” Alyssa sat on the ground with a thump. After a long pause, she said, “Okay. I'm going.” Phil's heart swelled with joy.