Sorry it took so long to get this chapter up. it ended up being longer than I thought it would be. then a whole bunch of other stuff came up. But here it is. Enjoy.

Chapter Seven

While I'm not much of a New Year's guy, I wasn't going to pass up Doug's New Year's Eve party. For one, he wouldn't let me. I would have to be deathly ill for that to happen. And Amy really wanted to go. Only because Doug mentioned it to her.

Doug tried to get me drunk before the ball dropped in Time's Square—in each time zone. Didn't happen. And I was asleep before it dropped for the folks out in the Hawaiian Islands.

Judy ended up taking Amy home that night. Or morning. However you want to look at it. Amy. I never told her what had happened to me over that summer. At first, I didn't want to. By the end of January we had been dating for over two months. Our relationship had been going well and I was feeling good, but I was still battling over when to tell her about the sexual assault. I wasn't sure if I could.

On Valentine's Day I blew her off, told her I had to work. She believed me. I'm not sure why. I really didn't sound all that convincing. Why did I blow her off? Because I hate Valentine's Day. Why do I hate Valentine's Day?

I was sixteen. My dad drove my date and myself to our school's Valentine's dance. No, I didn't have my dad drop us off a few blocks away. I was one of those weird teenagers that didn't get embarrassed about their dad dropping them off with their date at the dance in front of the school. My dad didn't embarrass me. (My mom was another story.) My dad hadn't arrived by the time the dance was over, so the two of us waited outside. Half an hour passed and he still hadn't shown. It wasn't too big of a deal. He was a cop. He could've gotten caught up in something. It could've been anything, but what had happened was the furthest thing from my mind. Another twenty minutes passed. We were sitting on the steps when the chief pulled up. I knew by the look on his face—and by the fact that he was there at all—that something bad had happened to my dad.

He had been shot. One of the best nights of my young life was turning into the worst.

My dad didn't make it out of the OR.

It was senseless.

I still have his Commendation medal.

I don't hate Valentine's Day as much as I used to. But it's not on my favorites list.

Doug convinced me to make it up to her. So I did. He was right. I was wrong to take my issues out on her.

A week later I got a call from Brian. He had started his first semester of college. It was great to hear from him. I told him everything that had gone on since the last time we spoke. Quite a bit had come and gone for both of us.

When I mentioned I was beginning to have doubts about my relationship with Amy, and the fact that I still hadn't told her about the assaults, he had a few things to say.

"Yer having doubts because you haven't told her. You need to."

"I know that. It's just—"

"You think she's gonna dump you if you tell her."

I sighed.

"Tom, if you wanna rid yerself of any doubts, you need to tell her. It's the only way you'll know fer sure."

"Yer right. I'll set up a time to tell her. Maybe we'll have a movie night or something."

"Just don't wait too long. It just might end up being one day too late."

Brian was right. Two fold. I had to tell her, but I waited too long. Not that I had control over what happened. But it didn't stop me from becoming obsessed.

We stopped at a convenience store to pick up some snacks and drinks on our way to my place to watch a movie or two and talk. I brought a few things up to the counter while she grabbed a few more things. Too many things. As I waited for her, a man wearing an army green-colored jacket walked in and directly to the counter, pulling out a gun. He wanted the cash in the register and he kept waving the gun back and forth between me and the clerk.

I watched Amy out of the mirror. I couldn't say anything. I couldn't draw his attention to her. She obviously didn't notice the man standing next to me as she approached the front of the store. Her arms were full; she was carrying too much stuff and I couldn't get over to help her.

She called my name as a bottle started to slip from her grasp. "Tom…."

I turned my head calling back to her as the bottle shattered on the ground.

That evening led me to discover one more thing that can happen in three point three seconds.

A split second after the bottle hit the floor, he turned and fired. I heard myself screaming, "No…." He turned the gun back on me before grabbing the measly amount of cash and fleeing.

Amy died that night, right there in that store.

And I became obsessed with her death. Could I have stopped it? I had to know.

I can't remember how I got my hands on that tape. But I played it over and over again. I timed it from the moment Amy dropped the bottle to the shot being fired. Three point three seconds. I flinched at the time. Three point three seconds. There were other things I could do in three point three seconds: say the alphabet; pop a beer; shuffle and bridge a deck of cards; take off my shoes or my pants; take the pieces of pepperoni of a slice of pizza.

I put up the façade of being okay in front of my friends, but I was a total mess. I knew Doug could see right through it.

I wanted to see the guy put behind bars and I wanted it done my way. It was a senseless killing.

The shrink (it was mandatory to see him) was right. I did feel guilt, even though I knew I couldn't of stopped it. It only took three point three seconds. I'm sure I creeped him out a little with my obsession that I was not going to admit that I had. I lied to him, but I had a feeling that he knew that. He didn't press the matter, however.

I wanted revenge. I wanted him. The truth was, I wanted to kill him. He had to pay for what he did. My thoughts of killing him played in my head as I watched that three point three seconds of that video over and over again.

Judy came by one evening. We started to watch a movie and I fell asleep, only to have a bizarre dream that jolted me awake. Judy was sitting next to me.

"You okay?" she asked.

"What're you doin'?"

"You fell asleep during the movie, so I put some music on."

My only response: "Where's the tape?"

While I understood why she wanted to take the tape back, I couldn't let her. In my own mind, I still needed it. Yes, it was police evidence, but I was a police officer.

I found the tape in her purse, took it out and put it back in the player. She asked me how many times I had seen it. A hundred and twenty-two times. But I didn't watch the whole tape; only three point three seconds. Three point three seconds that slipped through my fingers. Three point three seconds where I could've done a thousand different things.

Then I began to rattle off things you could do in three point three seconds. I know I scared her.

The shrink talked to Judy, Harry and Doug. Knowing Doug, his visit had to be amusing. Not to mention awkward.

I pressed the detectives for answers. I was agitated. And I finally understood what so many families of murder victims go through.

All they could gather from a phone call the guy made was that he was in a pool hall.

My response: "That's it. That's the big clue. There's gotta be forty pool rooms in this city."

"Fifty-five," was the response from one. Thank you for being so helpful. Don't know what'd I do without you.

"I can't believe this, you can't stake out all those places. What are ya gonna do?"

"We're gonna do what we're gonna do. Why don't you ease up on yerself, Hanson?"

I was already frustrated. "Ease up." Now I was getting angry. "You've had this thing for days, yer gettin' nowhere. Yer gonna push this into a dead file, no one's gonna look at it for six months." I paused to calm myself. "Don't tell me ta ease up." After that, I left.

Later that night, Jenko paid me a visit. I could tell him it wasn't a good time, but that would only fall on deaf ears. I said it, anyway.

"This isn't a good time, Jenko."

"I can see that. Can I come in?"

I sighed heavily and let him in. He wasn't going to walk away and leave me alone.

My apartment was a mess. "I haven't had alotta time to clean."

"Yeah, I've seen worse, Sport."

I led him into the living room.

"Look, Jenks, I know what yer gonna say."

"Well, that's in'eresting because I don't." He paused, then made one of his weird hand gestures. "Whoa…wait a minute. You've discovered you've got psychic powers."

"Jenks…."

I turned the TV off and sat down on the couch.

"Ah, sport, I just came by ta see where yer head's at." He looked around. "I think it just might be lost in this chaos."

"I'm in mourning."

"Mourning? Well now there then…. Didn't see you at the funeral. Were ya hidin'?"

"It's not till next week." I sincerely believed what I said.

He sat down next to me and looked at me. "Amy Pearson was buried three days ago." I looked at him in disbelief. "You didn't even know that, did ya?" He paused. "Did you love her?"

"Yeah, I loved her. I was having doubts about our relationship, but—"

"Why was that?"

"I still hadn't told her about what happened to me on that case or over the summer. I was afraid if I did she would…."

"Leave?"

"Yeah. I was gonna tell her that night. We were gonna grab some snacks and drinks, go back to my place and watch a movie or two and talk."

He put his arm around my shoulders. "I was gonna tell her. But I waited too long. All of it slipped through my hands in three point three seconds."

I stood up. "I kept thinkin'…if I'd driven a little slower. Or taken another street. Or if I had taken her out somewhere…." I paused. "If…five minutes either way we wouldn't've been there."

I heard him stand up.

"You can't blame yerself, Hanson."

`I quickly turned to face him. "I shoulda done somethin'. The guy turned his back on me. Now if I'd done the right thing I coulda saved her."

"Aww, Hanson." I turned around as he walked up to me. "Every day in this world, someone wishes they coulda done somethin' different. But it doesn't work that way, sport." He never raised his voice. It was calm, almost soothing. Jenko reminded me so much of my dad. "Ya gotta leave it behind."

"I can't do that," I said softly.

"You've gotta, sport. There's nothin' that can bring that moment back. It's time to move on."

"I can't just let her go like that." I sighed, slightly agitated.

"Whadaya need?"

I walked past him. "I need ta know the job is being done. That even if I didn't get the guy, somebody will."

"Somebody will, sport."

"What are you sayin'?" I walked back over to him. His back was to me, so I stepped to his side to face him.

"I'm not sayin' anything," he said flatly.

"Don't do this to me, Jenks, you know something. You gotta tell me." I was near begging, near crying. "Please, I need it."

"I tell you what I know about this case, sport, I'm gonna feel like an idiot if you hit the streets lookin' fer revenge."

"I won't. You got my word."

"I don't know about this, sport. Not sure I can take that risk."

"I promise I won't. Please. I gotta know."

He filled me in and I headed to the pool hall the guy was known to hang out at. Jenko knew exactly what I would do. I needed answers and I was going to get them.

I sat at the bar, observing. Then I saw him. We locked eyes for a moment; then he bolted. And I bolted after him. He turned and fired. The next thing I knew I was stepping into Amy's place being blown into the display. And then I woke up.

I went back to the pool hall the next day and found Darrell (just some pool hall rat that knew the guy I was looking for). Amy's killer was holding up a liquor store, so I went after him. I got there, called it in as he bolted out the door, and went after him. I chased him to a construction site, running inbetween, and under scaffolding and along the catwalks, trading shots when one of us saw the other. He was trying to hide, but I found him.

He was looking for me. With his back turned I was able to sneak up behind him. He turned around to find my gun in his face.

"Drop yer gun," I said to him. "You have three seconds." He stared at me, not moving. So with my gun still on him, I started to count. "One…two…." I pulled the hammer back.

He dropped his gun and put his hands up.

I kept my gun on him. I wanted to pull the trigger. Ioki came up behind him, cuffed him, and led him away. I pulled my weapon back as Jenko came up behind me.

"Ya got 'im, sport."

There was silence for a moment before I spoke. "Yeah, I did."

"Good job, Hanson."

"Thanks."

"You did everything the way a good cop's supposed to." There was silence again. "Did ya get that three point three seconds back?"

I turned to face him and said evenly, "No."

"Come on. Let's get outta here."

The next day I visited Amy's grave, brought some flowers. I knelt down and told her everything I should've told her three months ago.

We were hit with a massive snowstorm the second week of March. The city was at a virtual standstill for three days while the streets were being cleared. Doug and I both lived fairly close to the park, so we both walked down there and built snowforts, had snowball fights with the kids, and even played a little hockey at the outdoor rink.

However, our attempts at building the giant snow kraken weren't exactly stellar—or even good, for that matter.

So I decided to build something else.

"That's just sick, Thomas," Doug said to me as I stood back, admiring my work. "You need serious help."

"What?"

"A giant chicken chopping the snowman's head off."

I shrugged. "Turnabout's fair play."

He looked at me, knitting his eyebrows together. "Sometimes I wonder if you really are as well-adjusted as you have everyone believing." Then he walked off towards the vendor selling hot chocolate.

"Oh, yeah," I shouted after him. "Define well-adjusted."

Maybe I was pushing it with some of my other creations, but it's not like real dogs don't lift their hind legs and mark a fire hydrant. At least, I wasn't making it anatomically correct. I was just being my creative self. Or maybe I was just reading the Calvin and Hobbes comic strip too much.

When the roads were finally cleared—and the snow had stopped falling, sort of—we were back on duty being handed out cases.

On the evening of the sixteenth (still March), I was stabbed in the arm with a needle by some whacked-out junkie as I walked to the entrance of my apartment building. The guy fled before I had the chance to react. I pulled the needle out of my arm and walked, stumbling slightly, to my apartment.

Man, that hurt.

I hoped that the vial was empty before he jabbed it into my arm. I didn't feel any different, but that really didn't mean anything. As soon as I was in my apartment, I bagged the needle and vial, then took a shower. I should've gone to the hospital, or at least, a clinic, and got checked out. Who knew what that thing was loaded with? But I decided to wait it out and go first thing in the morning to the nearest clinic. It would take less time there to get checked out, therefore avoiding coming in late (hopefully) and the question I didn't want to answer: Where have you been?

Fortunately, I wasn't on a case at the moment. So if I did walk in late, any excuse I came up with would be taken with a grain of salt. Not that telling would've been a big deal.

That morning, I headed to the clinic. I explained to the doctor what had happened and was given the long battery of blood tests. If there had been any drug in the vial at the time I was stabbed with the needle, it wouldn't have been much; any traces of any drug were long gone. The other blood tests would take awhile.

There was one other test I had to have done, but I balked at the thought. And HIV test. I didn't want to know. What if I did have it? Then what? I was scared to death. But I had to do it.

It would be at least a week before I got the results. A very, very long week.

Me and Doug were handed a case that week. The McQuaid brothers would be at work once again. We had to find out who stole Doug's Porsche. (He just hit me because he knows my sarcasm. He needs to stop reading over my shoulder when I'm writing. And I just popped him in the nose.) We were investigating students who were being bused over from the "wrong side of the tracks." Yeah, right….

It didn't turn out as expected. Some bits of the case were quite amusing. Sometimes I really do love my job. ("Like when we get to pick on those obnoxious rich kids?" "Yes, Douglas. Thank you for yer input." "You're welcome.") Knocking around that Sawyer kid was, I have to admit, fun. ("I really liked that Wally kid." "Thank you, Douglas. Again." "Yer welcome. Again.")

However, for Drew ("Poor guy." "Douglas." "Yes?")—the guy who ended up being our perp, it didn't end well. His dad wasn't exactly father-of-the-year material. However long he'd been abused, Drew had finally had enough. And we had to pick up the pieces.

The following week, I got the results for my HIV test. ("Which he kept all to himself." "Douglas!" "Sorry. Continue.") By phone. I told them to call me at home and leave a message on my answering machine, if necessary. ("And to keep me from answering yer phone at work." "Exactly. Now stop reading over my shoulder." "Are you gonna write what we're saying to each other down, too?" "Douglas!") Which is exactly what happened. The doctor left a message asking me to call him as soon as possible. I called immediately.

It was positive. When the words left his mouth, I froze. Positive. I couldn't move or speak. After a few moments, I finally found my voice; but was only able to utter two words. "Thank you."

He wanted me to come down to the clinic to discuss my options with medication. I already knew I couldn't afford it. I had no idea what I was going to do.

What was I going to tell everyone? How was I going to tell them? I felt like my entire world was collapsing in on me.

That night, I couldn't sleep; no matter how hard I tried. My mind was racing a mile-a-minute; it just wouldn't shut up. I kept thinking about Harley and what he went through. And as much as it no longer mattered, the fact that I could've infected Amy. I probably did. My life was forever changed now.

I looked at my clock. It was almost five-thirty, so I just got up. I wasn't sure if I'd fallen asleep at all during the night or even dozed off. I was going to be dead on my feet all day. The clinic was already open, so I decided to head on over there. My morning routine was already shot. I'd pick up some coffee and a breakfast burrito on the way to work.

It was going to be a very long day.

The doctor wanted to discuss my CD4 count, viral load, seroconversion and all this other stuff. Then we discussed my prognosis. It wasn't as horrible as I thought it would be. It was really hard to focus on all he was saying. I was still in shock over the "HIV positive" announcement.

Before I stepped into the chapel, I had to suck it up and pretend everything was perfectly fine. My acting skills were going to be put to a major test.

Having HIV would change my life in more ways than one. While I've always believed in God, I hadn't exactly been a great servant. Not even a good one. Nowhere near. I'd been more about self since I stopped attending Sunday School when I was fourteen. It wasn't too bad until my dad was killed. Then I started to question Him. I constantly flip-flopped back and forth between begging Him for answers and completely turning my back on Him.

I had a new case. Somebody was barbequing biology books at Archmont High School. Thirty percent fundamentalist. I was going in as a thumper. ("Bible-thumper, Douglas. Not the rabbit." "I didn't say anything." "You were going to. Now stop reading over my shoulder.")

James Crawford, the biology teacher, wanted to teach Creationism in his class. He received a lot of criticism, even to the point of being suspended. But I had to give Mr. Crawford props (Clavo likes to use this word) for being straightforward and standing firm in his beliefs.

Though it had little to do with book burning, Mr. Crawford's son, Cameron, would nearly become the central part of this case.

Meeting Cameron Crawford would set me back on the path to God, though it would be a long and rough one.

Ever since my dad died I had been cursing God one moment and begging Him the next to tell me that my dad was okay. Now this weird kid comes along and tells me that he is okay. And I kinda believed him. Then he told me my mom was, too. I hadn't told him about her. ("Freaky." "Douglas." "Sorry.")

Recently, Cameron had been pulled from the icy water of Renner's Pond. He was pronounced dead. And was brought back to life. I won't downplay the fact that what happened to Cameron was a miracle, but it seemed to me that people were taking it too far in both directions. Nobody appeared to take it for what it was: a miracle. It didn't need to be analyzed.

I once heard something along the lines of "For those who believe in miracles, no explanation is necessary. For those who don't, no explanation is possible." I'm not sure if that really applied to the situation or not, but it didn't sound too far off.

With this "Miracle at Renner's Pond" situation it was like Cameron wasn't allowed to be a teenager. At least, that's what I perceived the more time I spent with him.

I confronted his father about it, having to reveal who I really was in the process. I had to. Cameron needed to—and deserved to be a kid. Even the greatest preachers got to be kids. A teenager like Cameron needed to be a teenager for the sake of other teens. He could help them better than I could. But it seemed that I was the only one that could see it. Something bad was going to happen if I couldn't convince Mr. Crawford and the rest of them that Cameron deserved to be a kid.

I felt he was being used. I believe what happened to Cameron was a miracle, at least I do now; but it was like he was being used as a marching song. Sure he may have been inspiring people to stand up for the truth. But it was time for everyone—especially his father—to hear Cameron's truth. Maybe I was only half-right when I said he should be thinking about girls and baseball and not leading some crusade. Maybe he was supposed to lead a crusade, but it shouldn't have been one everyone else thought he should be leading. If he was meant to lead a crusade, it should be between him and God—without everyone else involved.

I told Cameron what had happened to him wasn't a miracle because it had happened before. I had to wake him up. I didn't tell him that because I believed it wasn't a miracle. As far as I understood, he should've been dead. But he was alive.

And he needed to live.

When I was a kid I attended a couple Billy Graham Crusades while I was going to church. If Cameron was destined to be an evangelist like Billy Graham, then so be it. But he had to live to do it.

The rally the following day was going to be the catalyst; whichever he went.

The rally continued from the previous meetings on changing the laws to bring God back into schools. I can't say I was, or am, opposed to that idea, but I showed up for another reason. And it wasn't for book-burning, either.

Everyone in the crowd started to shout and shove each other. I watched Cameron get up and walk off the side of the stage.

I had to say something to that crowd before it got out-of-hand. So I grabbed the bullhorn from Mr. Crawford and threw in my two cents—as a police officer.

"That's enough," I shouted at them. "You people can be arrested for this." They started to calm after those words. "Look, I don't know if it's right or wrong to teach religion in schools, but right now you can't because it's against the law. So is burning books."

"Who do you think you are?" a man said.

"I'm a police officer, put undercover here to stop the burning of books. It stops now."

They argued back.

Judas goat? Really?

"There was no miracle," I said.

"You're talking blasphemy, Officer," Mr. Crawford said to me. I turned off the bullhorn and looked at him. "The Lord has sent us a miracle to prove He's the creator of life."

("Why does God need to prove Himself?" "That's exactly what I thought after Crawford said that.")

"The Lord told you that?" Ms. Wallace questioned him.

Mr. Crawford turned to her. "The proof is right before us."

"So the miracle was yer sign from God?" she made her way through the crowd.

"Absolutely," he responded.

"And what made it a miracle?"

"He raised my son from the dead."

"And that doesn't happen very often." I was amazed at her consistent calm demeanor.

"When was the last time God raised the dead?"

"So yer saying God doesn't throw these miracles around all the time."

I wasn't sure if I would call this a theological debate, but it did seem to be leaning toward a debate over the definition of a miracle.

The dictionary/concordance of the Bible I carried defines a miracle as: an unusual happening, one that goes against the normal laws of nature. Miracles are done by the power of God.

The 1828 publication of Webster's (that would be Noah Webster) Dictionary defines a miracle this way:

Literally, a wonder or wonderful thing; but appropriately,

In theology, an event or effect contrary to the established constitution and course of things, or a deviation from the known laws of nature; a supernatural event. Miracles can be wrought only by Almighty power, as when Christ healed lepers, saying, "I will, be thou clean," or calmed the tempest, "Peace, be still."

They considered not the miracle of the loaves. Mark 6

A man approved of God by miracles and signs. Act 2

Anciently, a spectacle or dramatic representation exhibiting the lives of the saints.

The current Webster's Dictionary definition isn't much different. It says this: 1) an extraordinary event manifesting divine intervention in human affairs. 2) an extremely outstanding or unusual event, thing or accomplishment. 3) Christian Science : a divinely natural phenomenon experienced humanly as the fulfillment of spiritual law.

"It tends to cheapen them, Ms. Wallace," Mr. Crawford replied.

But they did kind of come in clumps, in the Bible at least. That didn't mean God threw them around.

I suddenly found myself debating over the matter with myself alongside Mr. Crawford and Ms. Wallace.

"Would you call it a one in a million chance?" she said.

"No, I'd call it more like one in a billion." I could feel the tension in the air. It was almost palpable.

"Well, I hate to disappoint you, but God has done it three times this winter."

"Liar."

"Got the proof right here." She pulled out newspaper clippings from her coat pocket and began to share them. A school boy in Texas, pulled from a frozen river, dead for twenty-five minutes; a baby in Virginia, pulled dead from a swimming poll. "Both alive today."

Miracles in clumps.

I honestly didn't know what to believe. I'd never been a part of anything like this before.

"That has nothing to do with this," Mr. Crawford insisted.

"It is a miracle, Mr. Crawford, but a miracle of science."

Maybe, was my only thought to that.

"Jim, yer a scientist," she continued. "These children experienced hypothermia. Their organs were partially frozen and the doctors were able to revive them."

"No." there was a little discontent in the crowd.

"You don't hafta believe me, just read."

Ms. Wallace wasn't trying to undermine anyone's beliefs, but that's how the crowd was taking it and they began to jeer her. I felt bad. I had to do something.

"The Lord has sent us a miracle,"—Mr. Crawford was still adamant—"my son is the proof."

He turned and pointed at Cameron as he spoke, but he wasn't there. Cameron had walked off when I first stood up.

Then I heard his voice.

"I am the miracle and the light."

Miss Wallace gasped. The crowd followed, pointing upwards. Mr. Crawford and I turned to look. Cameron was standing on the top of the proscenium. People began yelling at him not to jump. All I could do was stare.

"I came back once before," he continued, "I can do it again."

His mother had gotten up and was now standing next to her husband. Cameron's parents were beside themselves. "Cameron?" Crawford said it with disbelief, like he was unsure it was Cameron.

"I have the message. Don't turn yer backs." Cameron's voice was full of emotion.

I had to do something. I turned to Mr. Crawford. "Tell him he's not a miracle. Tell him."

Mr. Crawford knew he had to. "Cameron, come on down, son. You don't hafta prove anything. Come on down."

Maybe Cameron was a miracle. But what was the point of God doing a miracle if Cameron was about to end his own life.

"Don't. I'm not afraid."

"Crawford, tell 'im." If he didn't tell Cameron he wasn't a miracle, there likely wouldn't be another one.

"I am innocent before thee, O King." Cameron lifted his arms toward the sky.

"Tell him he's got a right to be a person, not yer holy symbol," I said to Mr. Crawford. "Tell 'im it's okay to be himself."

"Please, son," he begged.

But Cameron kept going. "God chose me to carry the word."

And I kept going. "Don't let 'im fall, Crawford. Tell 'im it's okay. He doesn't hafta be a miracle."

"Cameron, listen to me. I was wrong." As Mr. Crawford spoke, I sincerely prayed that this was going to work, but I wasn't sure if God would listen to me.

"God picked me." Cameron was beginning to break down.

"I was wrong."

Cameron started to cry. "Don't say that."

It was safe to say that everyone's emotions were running high. Including mine.

Mr. Crawford was now pleading with his son. "Cameron, please. Come down, I need you to be my son. Cameron, please."

I kept looking back and forth between Cameron and Mr. Crawford. I could hear people in the crowd beginning to pray. It felt like eternity, but Cameron finally came down off the proscenium. ("Now that was a miracle." "I agree with you there, Douglas.")

The following Sunday I found myself in the morning service at Crawford's church.

I attended a few more services before sliding back into my usual ways. But that would soon change. However, there were still a few things, a few road blocks that were going to make themselves nice and comfortable on my path. And one of them would revolve around Doug.

.21 JUMP STREET

The use of "Brother Hanson and the Miracle at Renner's Pond" was intended to be a simple overview. But as usual it went in another direction. it's the way I roll...apparently. Hope it was worth the wait.

A special thank you to all my followers, reviewers and readers.