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The mission.
She’d pumped at stopped hearts. She’d pushed her breath into the dead. She’d watched the paddles jerk and jolt false life back into a body.
Once she’d believed those actions a part of healing. Even miracles made by man.
But that was false pride, and that led to a fall—a fall from the only one who performed true miracles.
She listened to stories of some of those dragged back into this world. Some wept, as where they’d been, what they’d felt had been beautiful, peaceful.
And she’d seen in the eyes of those returned what she understood to be a longing for what had been stolen from them even as they embraced the world again.
For a few moments, they’d touched the eternal.
She’d been called to give them that gift again. And as her reward, their blood sustained her, gave her—and Sam—strength, clarity of vision, a purity of understanding what others couldn’t.
Wouldn’t.
As she drove through the hills, along the winding road, she felt a sorrow that the long winter neared its end.
For every time there is a season, this she knew. But with spring and summer came more people. Out of their winter caves like bears to roam. Some even close to the house and land where her grandmother had raised and fried up chickens.
It took more time, more care to follow the mission when the days loomed long with light and people sat outside well into the night.
But follow it they would, she promised, as she pulled up to the little house that had been in her family for three generations.
She carted in groceries, went back for more, then put them away.
While the flash drive in her pocket all but burned a hole in it, she reminded herself she had a good meal to make. Sam would be home before much longer, and they’d look at those records together.
She put the salted water on to boil, scrubbed the potatoes.
Once she got them going, she beat up eggs, dipped the pork chops in, and breaded them. Before long, she had them in a skillet, the beans in another.
She heard Sam pull up just as she put the rolls in the oven.
“Woo-wee!” He came in with a grin and a clutch of daffodils. “Something sure smells good!”
“Pork chops, salt potatoes, butter beans. I haven’t made you a good dinner all week.” Her heart bloomed inside her chest as she walked over, kissed him. “And you brought me flowers.”
“I wanted to give you something near as pretty as you.”
“Oh, Sam.” She leaned against him for a minute. “You always brighten my day. I’m going to put these in water and set them on the table. Dinner’s ready as soon as the rolls come out.”
“I think my babe had a good day.” He shrugged out of his jacket, then started to get a beer. He switched it to the bottle of apple wine she liked.
“You’d be right.”
She took the flash drive out of her pocket, held it up.
“You got the records! I swear, my Clara’s the smartest woman there is. What do they say?”
“I haven’t read them yet. I waited for you. You’ll get off your feet, have a good dinner. And after, we’ll look together.”
“That sounds just fine. It does me good to see that worry off your face.” He handed her a glass of wine. “I’ll get the table set.”
“We sure make a good team, don’t we, doll?”
“In every way there is.”