The Publican raised his leg. “Take a hold,” he told us.
We floated forward down the staircase, while the Skeptic clutched the Publican’s ankles, and dug our feet into the mud, as the rushing flood shoved us from behind. The Evangelist begged for us to hurry, shouting over the cascade of rushing water and the crackle of thunder, his hold on the parapet slipping. The Publican asked him to extend a hand, but the Evangelist couldn’t, afraid the deluge would sweep him away. We stretched until every muscle seared with pain. Our feet slipped and we began to lose our grip. We spat the polluted waters from our mouth as the rain beat on our heads and the sea roiled in our ears. Just as the Evangelist’s fingers slipped from the stone, the Publican snatched him by the sleeve, but as he pulled the fa
