“What am I to do?” came a mocking voice. “You can get outta my way.” I’d know that voice anywhere. I.M. Knott, here to “help” the situation, was standing at the bottom of the steps. He quickly placed a new name on the second mailbox, and left, grinning. We got a good look at it. We looked at each other. We looked across the street. We saw a man - no doubt the “Newly D. Claird, Deacon” we’d read on the box, already walking contentedly, arm in arm, with Uma. Her voice carried across the street. “Uma Stobay. Better than that fellow over there, I’m hoping you to be,” she said, pointing toward us.
I turned to the broken, singed man beside me. He’d avoided that prostituted Mindset dame, but he’d been burned by Knott’s ES-V2004. The wily ol’ false ‘Doc Trin’ had even managed to get his phone removed, so he couldn’t receive any more calls. “Brother, you probably feel like you’ve lost yourself, that you’re not Justin Stauld any more. But remember, you’re still a Pastor. Great-Great-Great Grandpa says so, and he knows what he’s talking about.” I helped him into my car. “Lern and Digest have invited you to stay with them. You get some rest. I’ve got some thinking to do.”
We headed away from the Kirche place. I turned on the radio.