––––––––
“Daddy.”
“What?”
“What’s that?”
The sign was small, black with white text, and hand-painted. Had Griffin not pointed it out, George would have missed it. They were well on their way to Santa Fe, I-40 turning into a lulling sameness of road-prairie-sky. The sign was one amongst a procession of billboards luring George’s attention away from the highway. He blinked to adjust his eyes, parsing the words one by one.
Have you ever seen a miracle?
274 Miles
They rushed past it to keep tempo with the few cars and eighteen wheelers that shared the highway.
“I don’t know, buddy.”
“What’s a mir—, uh.”
“Miracle, Griff.”
“What is that?”
George’s hands tightened on the steering wheel, mouth moving silently with a thousand possible explanations, none of them suitable for a five-year-
