And yet it is so much more than that; rather, it is a series of lucky breaks: from the box-truck backed up to the loading dock just as snug as could be; to the solar panels working precisely as predicted (as evidenced by the dim light over the man door); to my easy passing of the retina scan; it is, in the end, a kind of revelation, a kind of magic. As though God Himself has looked down through the lights and the wine-dark clouds; and, seeing our hope and fear and desperation—our truth—extended to us the Horn of Amalthea.
That’s when I feel it; that’s when the ceiling shakes and I turn to see a fireball crashing deep inside the warehouse (not the foyer, which is where Beth and I are waiting as the men return from their sweep). That’s when everyone freezes and Will snatches up his radio an
