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He sprints across the bouncing telephone lines. If he falls, it's game over; I have seen this again and again. It begins as a confident dash, his pace never falters as I watch his precarious tightrope act. I watch with hope, with trepidation, that he continues to move forward without accident. But along comes a roosting bird, or a pole that is either too high or too low, and he trips. He doesn't just trip. He crashes. He explodes. In a split second, everything comes to a grinding halt, a spatter of gore, another corpse on the side of the road. But as soon as this happens, as if it didn't happen, he comes rushing out of a cloud of viscera; reborn on his predetermined path. I wish it didn't have to be like this. I control his destiny, yet I have no control over myself.

We are both tired of this constant cycle of death of and undeath. I can tell. The runner's once confident stride becomes a lopsided gait. His tail droops. For the first and last time since we started our journey together, we make eye contact. His form takes a defined shape. A lion. Just as I feared.

_POOF._He vanishes. A lucky soul was granted his freedom. I am alone. Only me and the rows of undulating power lines, going up and down up and down in nauseating parabolas.

Up and down...

... Up... and down...

... Up... and... dowwwn...

If I don't stop this, I will probably get carsick. If only I can work my magic again--

--_POOF._Success. No more power lines clogging up the foreground. I have a clear view of the mesas gently rolling by. If my runner had any sense, he would have broken his fixed course and made a beeline for those formations without so much as a second thought. I know this landscape. Striations of orange and yellow are pastels under the afternoon sun. When sunset hits, those cliff faces will glow with such vibrant intensity. Behind those mesas is a canyon, a dried up river bed. "You should see this place during spring thaw. The whole canyon floor gets flooded. It's pretty cool," said a familiar voice. The proof of his words were in the field boulders in front of me, all strewn about across the field no matter what shape or size. The smaller rocks, polished smooth by eons of erosion, made the area look like the remains of some prehistoric mega-nest. He said, "Hey Efrim, come check this out. This thing's fricken humangous," he said as we came across the largest stone.

(Small stones smash into skulls.)

"You could build a house inside if you hollowed it out," I said to him. Jonzi peered down at me from atop the massive boulder, which was the size and rough shape of a double-wide trailer, . He jumped off--the height must have been at least eight or nine feet--and landed next to me without a sound, smiling. "A real Hale Pohaku, yeah? Stone house, all day!"

"How's the view from up there?" I asked.

"Check it out if you want," the bobcat gestured upward with a nod of his head. It was very him.

We had been going at it for close to an hour, hopping from stone to sun-broiled stone. Keeping up with Jonzi had taken some effort. I still wonder how he could maintain such balance with that short tail of his. strangled by the combined forces of my own pack and the cooler held in my paws--it was my turn to carry it--I was focused on arriving at our destination sooner rather than later "Let's hele," I said.

With one brow raised, he smirked. "Oh? Look at you! I never knew you could talk proper. And I known you for how long?"

"About three years." You could know me more, if you wanted.

"Okay then, boss. If you wanna hele, then let's hele. All aboard the hele-on bus. Next stop, Pakaloloville!"

Next stop, my painfully one-sided crush.

Next stop, inside the heart of a cowardly lion. On your left you will see the beginnings of an aneurysm.

Next stop, the worst summer of my life.

Final Destination: Big Fat Question Mark.

After another grueling half an hour, we finally arrived at Jonzi's secret spot. An island of pine in the rocky sea. It even had its own lagoon. The once mighty flood was reduced to a lazy stream and it was right next to this copse of trees where the current found rest before it continued down the length of the canyon. It was perfect, picturesque, straight out of a painting or a postcard. Despite the dull throbbing in my limbs, we immediately started to set up camp in the. The shimmering surface of the pool mocked and enticed us as we worked. "Can't wait to jump in," I said.

"Not yet. Can't scare away the fishies 'til we catch some of 'um." He looked me over. "You hot in that shirt?" So I took it off--a relic from middle school band--and tried to think nothing of it.

It wasn't long before we set up and settled down, fishing poles cast out into the water, the cooler in between us. As soon as he plopped down, he turned to me and said "I think it's time for a smoke break." He produced a pipe, a small metal cylinder, and a baggie full of "Dope-a-means, bah! The finest Nalo Greens. Want some?"

I declined. If my parents found out, mom especially, I would have been in a black hole of trouble. In retrospect, it hardly mattered.

In retrospect, I really hate irony.

He reached into the baggie. "It looks like a turd," I said.

"Yeah, fuck off, kay. You don't know what you're missing. This..." he waved it in front of my nose: pine, a hint of citrus, a lot of dirt--then stuffed it in that metal cylinder and twisted vigorously. "Is the motherfucking fire! A gift from God."

I watched him, fascinated with the whole ritual and a little curious to try it out. It would've given me one more thing to bond with Jonzi over. He lit the pipe. Green turned deep, vivid red-orange and the ember pulsed along with his thumb as he inhaled. Opening his mouth wide let loose a billowing plume of smoke which arced and swirled up into his nostrils. It was strangely beautiful.

I had heard of this thing where smoke could be shared between two people, like a kiss, muzzles close together; one blows, the other receives. I thought I would take Jonzi up on his offer under those circumstances.

It was spooky. For a split second, I thought he was a mind reader. Or I was being painfully obvious...

Jonzi took one more drag immediately after the first and rushed into my face. Our noses bumped together. Complete surprise, caught off-guard with my mouth open, filling with thick smoke. Scents of pine, a touch of citrus, dirt, all held together by the bobcat's own unique spice, flooded my tastebuds and rushed into my lungs. I coughed.

Jonzi cackled. "Shoulda seen the look on your face." His face screwed up in a look of complete bewilderment with a hint of bliss (I might be projecting) as wisps of smoke still floated out from his mouth and nose. "Ah-hah," he said in a mocking sing-song cadence. "I just popped your cherry."

A confusing mix of emotions roiled inside me. Irritation. Joy. Many boundaries were crossed. In this mash of states, I conjured up an insult; the worst thing I knew to call him. "Haole," I coughed again, feebly.

"You fucking fricka! Pot calling kettle black, ah? Let me tell you," and with that, the pipe returned to his muzzle, the lighter flicked flame and he huffed and puffed and blew my face in--this time he grabbed my face and actually pulled me closer--the perfect reaction, I was in heaven for another split second. "Call me haole? You see this?" Huff, puff, "'Tis the breath of life, brah. Haole? A'ole!" I was sinking into his hazel eyes. "Ha'ai! I ain't dead yet! Besides," this was the part where Jonzi didn't speak like Jonzi and instead, spoke like everyone else. "The politically correct term is_malahini_." He laughed. I laughed. My head swam. I couldn't tell if it was the smoke or the fact that I was microscopically close to kissing Jonzi twice within the span of one minute. I felt good. I felt real good. Two best friends, together on the rocks, watching the ripples of the water, waiting for the orange and white floaters to dip beneath the surface; I can remember the way the wind rustled through the trees because Jonzi said it reminded him of the ocean. So strange to think that I can count the times I've been to the sea on one paw.

School had already been out for a week, but that was the first real day of summer, and in some respects, the last. The end of an era. An overnight camping trip; our final hurrah. After that, Jonzi was going back to the place he called home. My spirit was bittersweet and nostalgic. There was so much I wanted to say, but couldn't. Fear kept me from being direct with my true feelings. At the time, I thought I could begin with the simple stuff and work my way towards, "I've fallen in love with you."

I said, "Remember how we became friends?"

He huffed and chuckled, "Oh yeah, it was 'cause of that one fucking guy, the wolf...uh... Whatsisname."

"Dustin Bingham." I kind of knew him, but not really. I kind of knew Jonzi at the time. He was the new kid in town. We had some classes together back in freshman year. One day, during lunch period, the two of them got into it for some reason. Freeze-framed, Dustin wore a cocky, wolfish grin, while Jonzi looked like he was out for blood, short tail lashing, claws unsheathed, a snarl bordering on tears.

Fast-forward and it's his grin, confidence without arrogance. "If you hadn't've gotten all nosy and come between me and that fucking mack-truck, I'd be goners. Did I ever thank you for saving my sorry ass back then?"

"No, I don't think so."

"Well then, much mahalos. I was real stupid back then, yeah? All pissed off and shit."

"What was that whole thing about anyway?"

"Like I can fucking remember," another flick of flame, an absentminded puff. I thought, 'can you do that thing again?'. He didn't. "Something stupid. Speaking of stupid--" he opened the cooler, reached inside, and produced two green bottles dripping with condensation. He opened them deftly with the lighter and passed one to me. "Here's to you, ah? I ain't gonna miss much about this godforsaken place, but you my friend made it all worthwhile." That could have been the perfect moment_._Notes of tapwater and moldy bread graced my palate. I tried to ignore the grimace and after a few sips, succeeded. Strike two for things I'd be in trouble for if my parents ever found out, but I was hoping for a looser tongue, which could lead to strike three. Or to third base. Or both.

(One strike and I'm out.)

Instead, what came out of me was a half roar, half burp. At least Jonzi was impressed and offered his commentary. "Perfect tens from judges across the board! But what is this? A 9.5 from Spring City? Not enough vibrato towards the end, I figure. Hard to impress those Jesus Freaks. Better luck next time. You did your best."

No.

No I didn't.

If I did, I would not be here.

"I'm going to miss you," I think I said.

_Miss me, miss me, now you have to-- "_Yeah, yeah, I'll miss you too, but you still have Gramma to pal around with. She l_oo_ves you."

"I think she's over paying me." I still think so. Groundskeeping, production assistant, she paid me as if I worked full time, though my time spent actually working certainly wasn't. At least it made my summer worthwhile. That is... up until a few days ago...

"I just said she loves you. Gotta be careful, though. She likes 'um young, yeah?" He got me with a wink and a nudge.

"Say no more."

Stupid.

Idiot.

It could have been as simple as turning my head and revealing everything; "Jonzi, I think I've fallen in love with you," and then I would know the answer to the ultimate question; what happens next? I have thought of every possible outcome as to how Jonzi might have reacted from such a proclamation. There are four basic categories: Complete Understanding and Consent (a snowball's chance in hell), Friendly Let Down (if I try hard enough, maybe I can... I don't know... Convince him of my worth as a romantic prospect? I mean, that was kind of the plan from the beginning; a gradual process over time), Total Shutdown (he never speaks to me again and that will be that), Violent Retaliation (I am always disgusted by these thoughts; how I could think so low of him? I've encountered too many horror stories.)

I was convinced it was a sign. Now I'm pretty sure I'm just irrational. But then again ...

A floater, once bobbing lazily on the surface, gave three ominous jerks before it went under. Floater number two didn't see it coming. Down it went with a plop. The two of us sprang up and began reeling. Our motions completely synced up. "Come on, you fricka!" said Jonzi through gritted fangs. The beasts were tricky. We were trickier. I could trace my catch's frantic mad-dash with every tug and click of the line. Soon, one, then two trout lay gasping, glittering under the high sun as they flopped from stone to broiled stone. "Efrim," he said my name with all the sincerity I could drink up. "Get ready for the best dinner of your life." I remember skin crackling over an open flame, meat that flaked in all the right places, and now my gurgling stomach reminds me of my paltry breakfast and lunch. I should have eaten even if I wasn't hungry. The first thing I'm going to ask when I get to my destination is "When's dinner?" I have a million questions, but I think I will stick with the most benign. Easy questions get answers. Hard ones keep me up at night and ruin my appetite.

Why am I like this? Does God hate me? (Does he even care?) What would happen if my parents found out? (Answered). How many sleepless summer nights spent with such questions spinning around my head? (Practically all of them.) How many times have I returned to the most pressing questions of all-does he, could he feel the same way, and if not, then what? (All the time.) What is it about the bobcat that draws me in so much?

The unfinished poem. I got as far as _I hope you don't think I'm a freak/ But I like the way you speak,_before I realized what type of guy would give another guy a poem as a gift, especially if it was about the subject's most admirable qualities. Funny, smart without making a big to-do about it, always willing to lend a positive paw or a new perspective whenever I had a disagreement with Mother or Father (what would he think of me now?) Before Jonzi, I had never met anyone who couldn't care less about what others thought of him. A quality I wish I shared.

At first, I thought it was a healthy respect, nothing unusual about that. But then I lost control. I started to notice other things about the bobcat.

To this day I swear he was giving me signals. Smoke signals at first, then something that defined many late summer nights. "Ready for a swimming lesson?" Jonzi told me in a fantasy on one of those nights.

I swear each summer has gotten hotter and hotter with my growing mane. I was more than ready for a swim. What I was not ready for was when Jonzi stood up and dropped trow. I had seen him naked before, but always in the context of the showers during gym, never with just the two of us. He gave me only a second to drink him all in--his form is sleek with visible curves of muscle, bands and spots entwine along warm ochre fur (except for the white on his inner thighs)--before he promptly jumped into the crystal-clear water, leaving me to my racing thoughts.

I finally managed to say, "Didn't you bring your trunks?"I know it was feeble.

His head bobbed just above the surface while the rest of him remained frustratingly shrouded. "Ainokeas, braddah!"

Decisions looped through my mind. What to do? If I followed Jonzi's lead and went in nude, I could've run the risk of revealing everything. But if I kept my trunks on it would've been on obvious that I was hiding something, that I was afraid.

It was the first day of summer.

It was the last time I hung out with Jonzi.

I think I made the right decision. My heart pounded. My stomach felt tight and sour. All of my will went into unbuttoning the front of my shorts. I stepped out of them, but my tail got caught. I swished and flailed to get it off. I must have looked the fool. I know I did, because Jonzi catcalled and whistled from behind my back. He said "This silence is troubling. Very troubling." Hold on, that isn't right. The voice is too deep, too raspy, and the accent's all wrong. "You will pay attention, yes?"

The mesas are long gone, having been replaced by an expanse of flat, homogenous corn fields rolling by while the low drone of the highway is a heavy echo. I am almost there.

"Yes." My neck feels stiff as I turn away from the passing landscape. Had I really been staring out the window for that long? A pair of sharp, gold eyes peer down at me from the rearview mirror. Eyes that look like mine, but are not. I am trapped.

"We have not been speaking, you and I, since our last conversation when this problem of yours was coming to my attention."

A conversation? A lecture with a bloody slideshow is not a conversation.

"And your quiet refusal of the front seat was most confusing. Why is this?"

"I did not want to get carsick." I already told you that.

"So a carsickness is it?" The rearview sneers at me. "Sick, you are most definitely. Sick of this babbling old fool, I do not doubt it, so you avoid my presence and cloister yourself in the backseat."

"I think I'm getting a little carsick now."

A long sigh, exasperated and dangerous. Knuckles creak and tighten over the steering wheel. "I do not appreciate this flippant tone of yours. Need I remind you that there is a few hours remaining in our journey and I will not be spending the remainder of it in the presence of a dead log. You will listen. You will talk."

"Yes. Sorry..." Is it too much to ask for one thing to go my way, even for something as simple as some peace and quiet? I honestly don't know else there is to say that hasn't been said already, but there is no escaping Father's ultimatum.

"Good, I am glad to hear this. I was afraid that this longstanding silence between us would remain unbroken and that you and I would part not understanding each other. At the very least, I want you to know this. I have been thinking a lot over these past few days. Such a shock it was, yes, the shock of my life to discover that you, my oldest son, was choosing to walk down a path which not only goes against the values I thought I had been instilling in you, but against the very laws of nature. It has been the only thing on my mind. I have been thinking and re-thinking and overthinking, but eventually, I am able to come up with only one conclusion."

Silence. The eyes staring out at me are expectant. I realize now is the time to participate if I want to make things 'easy' for myself. "What conclusion would that be?"

"I try to find blame in every corner I look. I have been in this country for many years and I still find many of it's values insane and perplexing to this day. I find many faults there. I think maybe this was your mother's fault, but this is extremely foolish and driven by my own anger. No. There is only one person who can truly be at the root cause."

I am sensing a pattern. Father leaves his statements open and I am to do the guesswork and search out the question hidden inside the statement. "It's me."

"No, no, no. Please listen and please listen well. The one creature who is to blame is myself. Simply putting it, I am a coward and up until this revelation of yours, I have not been confronted with this reality so profoundly, but it is true. I am a coward and now I see I am starting to pass of my cowardlyness to my own son."

"This is..." Words flip through my mind--strange, weird, uncomfortable--before I settle on "Enlightening."

"Enlightening, yes, I hope you now understand where it is I am coming from. So now, please enlighten your father, and I implore you to be absolutely truthful. This problem... I hope you have not been acting upon it."

A feeble "Uhhhh," escapes my throat. Define 'acted-upon.' Or better yet, don't. Let's just call the whole thing off, shall we? Please?

"Know this. What is done is done. We cannot change the past, but can be traveling toward our future, yes. I have been watching you very closely these past few days. I am watching you now, and do you know what it is I am seeing?"

"No, I don't." Questions heaped upon questions. I am suffocating under a pile of questions with too many answers.

"It is very obvious. I saw it on my own visage once, a very long time past since then, yes. It was what drove me to the cloth because it terrified me so. What I was not aware of them which I am aware of now is that one does not need to subject oneself to celibacy to be a man of God. What you have written all yourself, as plain as the sun is bright, is the look of a broken-hearted lover."

He's right. The sour, convulsing clenching in my stomach says he's right. Am I really that obvious?

"Now, I am supposing you had hoped to keep this a problem a secret, or else you would have been forthright and honest as soon as this problem had arisen, instead of a snooping sister having found what you had hidden underneath your mattress."

And Genevieve's a fucking traitor for it.

"If your mother and I had never been finding out, you would still be on that trip to see your friend, the one with the short tail, off doing who knows what. So this makes me wonder. Are you wanting change for yourself?"

I honestly don't know. "I do."

"Efrim, your monosyllabic answers are very tiresome. Even if your mane has not reached it's full growth, you would be considered a full grown adult in my country, so please be acting your age and engage your father in _a_adult conversation."

Well, the problem, father, is that I don't see the point with this interrogation. You're already sending me away. You already know who I am. "Well, I was looking forward to this trip all summer. I can't help but feel that a rug has been pulled out from under me. Jonzi's like a brother to me." I hope this statement will derail your current line of questioning. Brothers don't do the things that I've wanted to do.

"You know this is for your own good, yes?"

"I know this intellectually, but not emotionally."

"Ah... I think I am seeing your problem a little more clearer. You, my son, have been constructing within your mind a false-dichotomy, a fiction, which of a separateness between your intellect and your emotions, but this should not be the case. Intellect should be driven by emotion and emotion by intellect. Why are you thinking this way?"

Once again, time after time, I explain how I am feeling then told I am somehow wrong. "I don't know."

"Then I am imploring you to think about this if you are not knowing. And you say the bobcat is like brother to you? Well sometimes nonsense is happening between brothers."

...

He just will not let it go.

And what is sometimes nonsense? That could mean anything...

Look, I know what you're trying to get at, but this intentionally vague, roundabout way of approaching the subject is making my fur crawl. "I'm not really sure what you mean."

"Your stupidity is unconvincing, but I am knowing why you feign it. Now, I am asking for your trust. You are not in trouble."

You mean it is impossible for me to be in further trouble. "We didn't do anything." Ihe plain truth.

"Yes, what I am asking is strange, I am aware, but I am wanting to know because it is serious. What I am asking, I know is uncomfortable, but I am needing to understand how deep this problem goes. So to speak, I am needing to see where the roots lie, so as to undo them."

Why are you so curious? Do I have to keep repeating myself or should I just go ahead and bash my forehead against the dash, on repeat. I reiterate, "Nothing happened."

"You are in no trouble from me, son, I am only wanting to help."

Isn't that why we're in this car right now, driving far and away? "I thought I am already being helped..."

"Perhaps you are going to be helped... Help will come, one way or one other. This place you are going, I will give it chance, yes, for the sake of your mother. So easy to find, this Academy. Maybe too easy." He coughs or chuckles, I can never tell. Maybe you should quit smoking. "Sorry, but is a little funny for me. All this problem, this rigamarole, is issue of Western Culture, and this program, from the researching I have done, is seeming to rely on the practice of psychologie, a Western philosophy, yes. All it is I am seeing is you lying down on a couch while it is some stranger who is telling you that your mother didn't change your nappy enough or your Father was too old to kick a football and that is why you have homosexual feelings. I see it and the progression is making no sense. A Western process which is trying to fix a Western problem is seeming very short-sighted. But I give it a chance, and do you know why this is."

"Yes." Of course I don't.

"Do you now? Please to elaborate."

... Of course that was the wrong time to say 'yes' like an idiot.

"I don't actually."

"Xlh_ah--_you try to swat me like gnat. You think your Father is flitting insect going buzz-buzz inside your ears. Well then so be it!" He frees a paw from the steering wheel then reaches out and flicks, claw half extended, against my shoulder. "This is my sting. So you will listen!" Your sting is feeble and immature.

"Listening..."

"We are enrolling you in this school as it is your mother and myself's compromise. The two of us had tremendous disagreement when we find that book which you so obviously did not want anyone to find. She was wanting to send you to so get counseling within her church and be done with it and I am saying 'No'. You may have been baptized Catholic, but you are still my son, and I am not trusting that church to be solving any kind of problem of that nature, especially it is since within their ranks that they have an even worse problem and it is one they are refusing to address. Your mother is saying 'But what about Father Rizal? He would never do such a thing! And yes, this is true. I think Father Rizal is a good individual, but he is just one individual; one lone wolf who is lacking in experience and is still has not developed much of an imagination. You go to him and it will all be very ho-hum surface quality biblical quotings, and you, son, will most likely be forgetting his banal advice by the time you are walking out the door."

Even if you're right, that sounds preferable. At least with Father Rizal, I know what I'm getting into. "You can give me more credit than that." Yes, I think I'd rather stay home and go to church, you know, like before.

"Credit for what, now? I give you credit for being Western Young Person. I know Western Young Person. I am trying to teach Western Young Person day after day the nuances of their very existing. Some of them bright, yes. You are bright and I am giving you credit for this. But all of them arrogant, and arrogance is going paw in paw with laziness. This is one of your many symptoms."

"My symptoms?" What are you even talking about?

"You are symptomatic, and are having been for these past years. I used to remember a cub who was chewing off my ear with questions so profound that I was thinking I was speaking to someone much older. You remember, yes? But these days, I am hardly seeing you, even when I am seeing you. Like pulling teeth, it is, trying to hear more than two words now. And during summer, I respect your independence as you are growing up, when you are spending time with that old painteress. I was thinking to myself 'Why is my son spending time with that Old Person instead of this one?' But I am believing you when you say your friend is like brother, so, Madame O'Coign is like Grandmother, I am assuming?"

"I think so, yeah." She's a lot cooler then you are. You know, I thought about staying with her after you and mom blew up...

But I'd hate to impose.

And questions would be asked.

And Jonzi would find out.

But isn't that what I want, even if I don't get what I want?

I am a coward.

"Your I-think-sos is proof of what I am talking about. It is perfect example of Western Young Person. You are wrapping your answers in a shroud of uncertainess and I am seeing behind the shroud and what you are saying is that yes, the old bobcat is like grandmother to you."

"Yes." You are exhausting...

"And I am not surprised. It is fact none of my children have ever been meeting my side of the family. Your own grandmother has long since passed on before you were born. Brothers, sisters, cousins, aunties, uncles, I haven't seen any of them in three decades. I fled with nothing but the rags which clings to my back and have never returned and I see I am losing a vital connection. This is plaguing me for many years; my old roots are shrinking as I have been planting new ones, and your roots are firmly planted in this new soil. I am thinking that some part of you is needing of some uprooting."

"I am not sure I follow."

"Do you not. Please be meeting me half-way."

"You want to send me to Abyssinia."

"Precisely. But this is your mother's disagreement. I am not liking her solution and she is not liking mine." There was a small sigh of relief. "But this is still a compromise and she is hopeful, but your Old Father here is stubborn, yes. This Protest-ant business is new territory, and yes, they are putting forth very confident claims and I am curious as to this method of theirs. But I am admitting I have my doubts. This is my compromise with your mother.. Now I will make a compromise with you. How much time do you think you need?"

"Time?"

"The time it will take to decide if the Protest-ants are knowing what they are doing or if all that fire and brimstone rhetoric is nothing but the hot air. And do not be calling me up tomorrow or a week from now saying you are cured because then I will know you are a liar who is thinking your Father to be a tremendous fool. I am no fool and I know this issue will take time to resolve. You treat me like a fool and our compromise will be forfeiting."

So, you're letting me decide for myself, but this is still entirely on your terms. My only two options are:

A: My current path, being sent away to this academy where I have no idea what is to happen.

B: Going overseas, to Abyssinia, the source of all your horror stories. Civil War, famine... Angry mobs armed with rocks.

"Isn't it dangerous over there?"

"It certainly isn't the lap of luxury that you're used to... But dangerous?" Shrug. "It was dangerous once. I was a prime target for the revolutionaries because not only was I a member of the clergy, but there is nobility in my veins, in your veins. Are you aware?"

You've only told me a million times. "Yes."

"You should be proud. Our wealth was in name only. But they did not care. My three options were a prison, a bullet, or to flee, so I fled. I do not see the use in fleeing any longer. The revolutionaries collapsed under their own ideology, but the church has remained steadfast. Things are stable in Abyssinia now.

I am willing to take a sabbatical. I am long overdue for one, you know, and am still willing. Three months. Six months. One year. It can be done. If this program is not shaping up, then the two of us will be going. In fact, if you have doubts, please be saying the word and we can be going in under a fort-night."

I do have my doubts , but these options... Three months to a year. If you offer a few weeks to a month, then I'd rather do that then this.. I will take my chances. "I'm curious about this school." There are others like me there, at least.

"This is the choice you are making, so I will respect it. But, I expect progress. I expect details of what is going on."

"Okay." I guess I am stuck with this choice. "Give me a week or two to settle in." These are my paltry terms.

"Our compromise is made, then."

"Yes."

"I expect you will come back to us speaking in tongues." Father laughs, croaks like a bullfrog. "But it is better than this, yes?"

"Sure."

Father says nothing more and I gladly follow suit. Our conversation is finally over. Thank God.

The farmland gradually disappears and the houses become denser denser. We pass by a small town; some nameless poke-n-plumb suburb with rows upon rows houses, all identical and depressing. A sign looms ahead: Spring City-60 miles. One more hour of driving, a pit stop at Aunt Florence's house for lunch, then onward to my final destination: Hiram Thurston Bible Academy's Straight and Narrow Program.