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“I can see God has made his own attempts to erase you over the years,” Leland said. “Now he has brought you to me. And I’m going to enjoy finishing that job for him.”

Leland crouched down in front of Shaw. And once again, he thought that while the boy might not understand exactly what he was being told, he recognized the truth of it.

He knewwhathe was even if he didn’t knowwho.

Thirty-seven

It is April 13, 1986.

Alan Hobbes parks his car on Grace Street and then walks slowly up the dark driveway toward Saint William’s Church. It is a warm night, with just a faint whisper of a breeze, and he has no desire to hurry. The world around him is still and silent, and the black sky above so clear it is easy to imagine God looking down at him from beyond the prickle of stars there. A weighty gaze, perhaps, but Joshua—cradled in his arms right now and still half asleep from the journey—is heavier.

Over the years, Hobbes has done his best to spend his money decently, distributing it without fanfare to the people and organizations who will use it to do the most good: laundering the gift of his fortune through the lives of others. But two of the more insidious things money can buy are privacy and access, and he has paid handsomely for both tonight. If God is watching, then he is the only observer present right now. And when Hobbes arrives at the door to the church and reaches out for the handle, he finds that the door is unlocked as agreed, and the porch inside empty.

You can’t do this, he thinks.

It’s not allowed.

But he does.

He carries his dozing son across and then pushes open the door thatleads into the main body of the church. He walks down the narrow aisle between the pews, the tap of his footsteps echoing in a space that feels vast. The light from the candles burning in the racks along the walls is unable to reach the vaulted ceiling high above. He glances up into the darkness there. God feels closer in here. It is as though he has leaned forward in his seat and is watching carefully, like a scientist peering into a microscope.

So let him watch.

Hobbes has come to hate him a little.

Hobbes still remembers the question he asked his students at the lecture.If you were a father, which would you prefer? A child who always did as they were told, or a child who disobeyed you and forged their own path, trying to do the best they could?It had been a rhetorical question, its answer obvious—or at least that was what he’d thought. And yet he has spent much of the time since doubting himself. Because with every bit of good he has attempted—every bit of evil he has worked to prevent—he has felt the world leaning harder against him, like a car ever more determined to drift sideways into a different lane.

You have committed blasphemy.

When Hobbes reaches the front of the church, he looks down at his son. In his arms, Joshua is sleeping again now, the side of his face resting against Hobbes’s chest.

Can you hear my heart?he wonders.

Do you know how much this hurts?

He bows his head and breathes in the familiar smell of his son’s hair, and then lays Joshua down gently on the stone floor, careful not to wake him. Then he leaves his hands against the soft wool of the blanket, reluctant to take them away now the moment has come. He has kept himself as calm and composed as he can until now, but he knows that his whole world will collapse when he lets go. The realization is stark. He will never hold his son again. For all intents and purposes, he will forever be a stranger to the boy.

It will be such a long time until I see you again.

Hobbes tries to tell himself that all moments are present, and so in some way he will always be here, with his hands touching his son to soothe both of them. But it doesn’t help. It does nothing to stem the grief that is building inside him. There will be so many stories he will miss as Joshua is growing up. But he also knows that Joshua’s story will be cut short if his son remains with him.

Because the world will continue to creak.

And Edward will never stop his quest to correct what has been changed.

So he has no choice.

“Are you all right, sir?”

Hobbes looks to his left, startled. A stewardess is standing in the aisle beside his seat, looking down at him with a concerned expression on her face.

For a moment, he is confused. Where is he?Whenis he? But then he realizes. It is a little later in the night now, and he is on a plane on his way to Italy for a conference. He will be called home first thing in the morning.

The cabin is trembling.

He swallows.

“I’m fine. It’s just… the turbulence.”