Page 127 of I Am the Messenger

"Ed?" she asks.

I'm in the cab now and wind down the window. "Sophie?"

"Could you?" Her voice steps politely from her mouth. "Could you tell me what I can give to you? You've given me so much."

"I've given you nothing," I tell her.

But she knows me well enough.

Nothing was an empty shoe box, but we'd never trade it.

We both know.

The steering wheel's warm as I drive off.

The last card I deliver is to Father O'Reilly, who seems to be having a party at his place for all the hopeless cases on his street. Those guys who tried to get my jacket and my nonexistent money and cigarettes are there, all eating sausage sandwiches with lots of sauce and onions.

"Hey, look." One points me out. I think it's Joe. "It's Ed!" He tries to find the father. "Hey, Father!" he calls, spitting out half his sandwich with the words. "Ed's here!"

Father O'Reilly comes hurrying over and says, "And here he is--the man who made all the difference to the year. I've been trying to call you."

"I've been a bit busy, Father."

"Ah yes." He nods. "Your mission." He pulls me aside and says, "Look, I just want to thank you again, Ed."

I know I should feel good about that, but I don't. "I'm not here to be thanked, Father. I was just bringing you a lousy Christmas card."

"Well, I thank you anyway, boy."

I'm frustrated because of my final ace.

Hearts, of all things to be last.

I expected spades.

I got hearts, and for some reason, this feels the most dangerous of them all.

People die of broken hearts. They have heart attacks. And it's the heart that hurts most when things go wrong and fall apart.

When I walk back onto the street, the father intuits my apprehension. He says, "It's still not over, is it?" He knows he was just one piece of what I have to do. One message of the given hand.

"No, Father," I reply. "It's not over."

"You'll be all right," he says to me.

"No," I tell him, "I won't. I won't be okay just for the sake of it. Not anymore."

It's true.

If I'm ever going to be okay, I'll have to earn it.

The card still sits in my pocket as I wish the father a merry Christmas and move on into the evening. I feel the Ace of Hearts sway inside my pocket. It leans forward, trying to get closer to the air and the world I have to face.

"Where to?" I ask my first pickup the next day, but I can't hear the answer. All I can hear is the sound of the hearts again, shouting and screaming and beating through my ears.

Faster.

Faster.