The door opens and Jefferson returns to his seat. He carries, not a glass, but a little book. “I marked something for you, Mr. Fabrizio. There’s nothing in this world that can help you. Only The Lord can do it. I hope you’ll let Him help you.”

I stare at the worn gilt letters on the cracked leather, while Jefferson slips away. I open the book to his mark:

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

I shiver, close the book and put it in a drawer. Will Jefferson get this desk after I’m gone? He should. But nobody wants to work for a negro maitre d’. They’d probably burn the place down.

It’s time. I go to the podium in the waiting area and grip its sides; it covers my stomach. I need something to work against; better underway in a storm than adrift. I see a familiar brunette in a green dress. Her chin is set, and she’s holding a suitcase.

That.