I'd been lying in bed, staring at the ceiling in the dark room for what seemed like hours. My thoughts were all over the place, and sleep was somewhere far, far away. I grabbed my phone and began scrolling through the seemingly endless social media feeds—carefully documented, impossibly perfect lives of people I used to know. But none of it was real. The picture-perfect sunsets on the beach, the concerts, the parties—it was all like a movie set, just a smokescreen to cover up the nothingness underneath. I'd felt that nothingness lift a little since coming to Odyssey, but tonight it weighed heavily on me.

I switched on the small lamp that was clipped to the bookshelf headboard and rolled over on my stomach to peruse the volumes on the shelf. One in particular caught my eye: a well-worn Bible with Connie's name etched in gold on the front cover. Strange, I'd never noticed it there before. I carefully removed it from the shelf and gently ran my fingers over the gold lettering. Opening the front cover, I noticed a hand-written inscription. It was from Mr. Whittaker.

Dear Connie,
In the short time I've known you, you've become like a daughter to me. I love you so very much, and I hope and pray that someday soon you'll come to know how God loves you even more than I do. Take care of yourself in California, okay, kiddo?
Merry Christmas, and God bless!
Whit

Mr. Whittaker must have given this Bible to Connie before she became a Christian, I realized, once again struck by just how deeply these people cared about one another.

Carefully flipping through the pages, I tried to recall where Pastor Knox had asked the congregation to turn during his message that morning. Luke, was it? It was that story about the tax collector who climbed up in a tree to catch a glimpse of Jesus as he passed by. Zacchaeus—that was the guy's name, right?

This was a guy who thought he had it figured out, Pastor Knox had said. He'd built a world for himself out of lies and other people's money, but he still felt an emptiness inside.

Just like me, I thought. A fake, a fraud, just looking for something real to believe in. The makeup, the designer clothes, the fake ID's and counterfeit friendships—everything that had been my life in California—had always felt so fragile and transient, like it could all come crashing down at any moment. So I'd found myself running, always running. Yet, now, I felt myself irresistibly drawn to this place I'd never heard of until not too long ago—climbing, reaching, searching for something to give a little purpose to the madness.

I heard muffled footsteps in the hallway, then a soft knock on the bedroom door. I hastily closed the Bible and shoved it under my pillow. The door cracked open slowly, and Connie's head peeped in.

"Everything okay, Jules? I got up to use the restroom and saw your light on."

"Yeah, I was just having a little trouble sleeping."

"Is something bothering you?""

"Nah, I'm okay. Probably just a chocolate chip cookie overdose," I joked, ignoring the hollow feeling welling up in the pit of my stomach.

She rolled her eyes at me. "I told you not to eat so many right before bed."

"I know, I know," I groaned, returning her eye roll.

"Well, goodnight, Jules."

"Goodnight, Connie."