The Gospel According to Blood
Prologue
Everyone has a destiny.
But sometimes, destiny isn’t shaped by our own hands—
...it’s shaped by others.
By grief.
By silence.
By choices never meant for us.
Death isn’t about fear.
It’s about whether you’re ready...
Or not.
And no one was ready the day Jedediah Johnson was born.
His first breath came with his mother’s last.
Her name was Miriam, and some say she smiled even as her soul left her body.
Others say her hand reached for her newborn son before it fell limp against the bloody sheet.
Levi Johnson never spoke of it—not once.
He buried his wife on a cold morning with red dirt beneath his boots and hollowness behind his eyes.
He didn’t hold the child.
Didn’t name him aloud.
When neighbors offered comfort, Levi stared past them, as if grief had built a wall too thick to speak through.
Some in the town whispered,
“That boy took her life.”
Levi never corrected them.
From that day on, Jedediah grew up under his father’s shadow, not his protection.
He was fed, clothed, and put to work.
But he was never touched.
Never praised.
Never loved.
Levi spoke in commands:
“Fetch the water.”
“Plow that field.”
“Don’t waste daylight.”
Not once did he call Jedediah “son.”
And Jedediah, knowing no different, obeyed with the quiet resignation of a soul waiting for the sun to rise.
The boy did not go to school.
Levi didn’t believe in classrooms, nor in teachers who thought they knew better than hard-earned hands.
What mattered to him was land—its yield, its obedience.
And to him, Jedediah was no different from the soil: something to shape, something to work.
But not everyone saw it that way.
Alice Meyer did.
She was the daughter of a seamstress and a mail clerk, curious and stubborn in equal measure.
Jedediah met her by the creek one afternoon, when she was hiding from her chores and he was chasing a stray goat.
He was ten. She was too.
She asked if he could read.
He said no.
So she brought a book the next day—then another the day after that.
They sat beneath cottonwood trees, spelling out words in the dust, laughing at wrong ones, whispering the right ones like secrets.
In Alice’s world, words were spells.
And to Jedediah, each letter became a stone in a path he didn’t know he was walking.
Then, when Jedediah was twelve, Levi Johnson died.
No one knew quite how.
Some said it was a heart attack.
Others believed it was the bottle finally taking its toll.
Jedediah found him slumped over in the barn, eyes open but empty.
There was no crying.
No collapse.
Just silence—as if the boy had always expected it.
The funeral was small.
Levi had no friends, only debts and the bitter memory of his wife.
Jedediah stood alone by the grave, hands folded, head bowed.
The grave itself had been dug by the county—no words, no prayers, just two men with shovels and a clock to punch. No kin came forward. No preacher spoke. When the dirt hit Levi’s coffin, it sounded more like a verdict than a farewell.
And still, the town watched.
They expected the boy to be sent away, or maybe to drift off like so many do.
But then came the church.
The Community Baptist Church had stood in the center of town for nearly fifty years, its white paint faded by sun and sermons.
Its bell rang out every Sunday, and its pews groaned beneath the weight of guilt and forgiveness.
At its pulpit stood Pastor Earl Williams.
He was a towering man with skin like worn leather, a deep voice that could stop a room, and a gaze that sifted truth from excuses.
He didn’t believe In saints.
But he believed in duty.
When no one else stepped forward, Earl did.
He brought Jedediah into the parsonage—a modest home behind the chapel with a cracked window and a leaky roof.
He gave him chores, structure, and Scripture.
Breakfast at sunrise. Prayer at dusk.
There were rules.
And there was quiet.
But there was no anger.
Jedediah never called him “father,” and Earl never asked him to.
But there was a strange understanding between them—one built not on blood, but on brokenness.
And while the church offered shelter, the town offered something else: suspicion.
Some people couldn’t forget that the boy had been born in blood.
Others said he was odd—too quiet, too still, eyes that saw too much.
But a few saw what was coming.
They didn’t know how.
They couldn’t explain it.
Only that something lived inside Jedediah Johnson—
Something planted long before he was old enough to name it.
And when it bloomed...
The town would never be the same.
Chapter 1
Twenty Years Later
The morning sun stretched long and gold across the cemetery grass, but Jedediah Johnson didn’t look up. His hands were on the shovel, steady. The dirt was soft from rain two nights before, and he worked quietly, pressing each clump aside like it might bruise if handled wrong.
He’d dug more graves than he could remember.
For strangers.
For townsfolk he barely knew.
Even for children—those were the hardest.
But this grave...
This one was for Pastor Earl Williams.
The man who had taken him in as a boy of twelve, wide-eyed and hollow with loss.
The man who had fed him when no one else did.
Who taught him to pray without fear.
To speak the truth softly.
To listen hard.
Now Jedediah stood in the hush of morning, alone but not lonely, digging the last resting place of the only father figure he had ever known.
He worked until the final foot of depth was cleared, until the sweat on his brow dried in the breeze, and until the light had shifted just enough to turn the shadows long again. Then, he wiped his hands, removed his hat, and sat beside the grave in silence.
He could hear it then—just faint at first—the sound of shoes and boots upon gravel, voices murmuring low, the rustle of dark clothes against the grass. The town was coming.
By midmorning, the cemetery was full.
Old ladies with veils and white gloves.
Men in pressed coats, some looking uneasy without their Sunday pews beneath them.
Children in quiet rows, wide-eyed and fidgeting.
Even Nick White Owl stood at the edge of the crowd, hands folded, long braids tied back, face unreadable.
They all came for Pastor Earl.
They gathered near the white tent that had been raised for the mourners—a modest canopy with folding chairs beneath. The coffin lay before them, polished and dark, adorned with a simple wooden cross and a white lily pinned to the top.
Alice Meyer, now a woman grown and schoolteacher by trade, sat in the front row, clutching a worn Bible.
The deacons stood nearby, their hymnals in hand.
And then the singing began.
“Amazing Grace.”
It rose slow, unsteady at first, then fuller as voices joined. The traditional Baptist hymn filled the air with grief and promise, old hope wrapped in melody.
A-ma-zing grace, how sweet the sound...
That saved a wretch like me...
Jedediah didn’t sing.
He stood a little apart, by the shovel and the open grave.
Hat in hand.
Eyes on the casket.
The only sound from him was breath and memory.
Pastor Greg Henry Collins, visiting from the next town over, took the small wooden pulpit that had been carried in from the church. He was younger than Earl had been, and his voice cracked once before it steadied.
“We are gathered today to honor the life of a servant,” he began. “A shepherd. A man who walked humbly, prayed deeply, and gave freely.”
Heads bowed as scripture was read.
From 1 Thessalonians 4:14:
“For we believe that Jesus died and rose again, and so we believe that God will bring with Jesus those who have fallen asleep in him.”
From Ecclesiastes 3:
“To everything there is a season...”
And then came the final prayer—the traditional Baptist “homegoing” prayer—a sending of the soul.
“Lord, we thank You for the life of your servant, Earl Williams. We do not grieve as those without hope. For we know to be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord...”
The amens followed, quiet but sure.
Jedediah’s fingers curled tighter around the brim of his hat. His throat tightened, but he said nothing.
When the casket was lowered, the wind picked up as if something invisible had been released. The first shovelful of dirt was placed by Pastor Collins, as custom dictated. Then the deacons, then the men of the church. Each took a turn, returning the earth with reverence.
Jedediah took the last.
He stepped forward slowly, scooped a full shovelful, and let it fall.
Thud.
Then another.
Thud.
And another—each one steady, rhythmic. The sound echoed like a heartbeat into silence.
No one stopped him. No one offered to take over.
This was his to finish.
As the grave filled, the crowd began to drift.
Some lingered, saying their goodbyes at the headstone.
Some left flowers.
Others only offered a nod to Jedediah as they passed, as if unsure what to say.
By midday, the cemetery was quiet again.
Just birds.
And the wind.
And Jedediah.
He sat by the fresh mound of dirt, back against a tree. The cross on the headstone still glinted in the sun. He didn’t cry. He didn’t speak.
But he stayed.
Because the work was finished.
But something else had begun.
Chapter 2
A Place to Speak
It was three days after the funeral when Jedediah finally found the time—and the heart—to sit beside the tomb alone.
The townsfolk had come and gone. The flowers had started to wilt. Even the grave, once fresh and raw, had settled some under wind and weather. The headstone stood clean and simple: Pastor Earl Nathaniel Williams, Faithful Servant of the Lord.
Jedediah came just after dawn, when the dew still clung to the grass and the morning mist softened the edges of the trees. He brought no tools, no work gloves, no hat. Just himself, and a folded cloth to sit on.
He sat cross-legged near the head of the grave, where the earth was still rich and dark. He let the silence settle for a while before speaking. He wasn’t good with words—not like Earl had been. But some things still needed saying.
“I didn’t get to speak at your funeral,” he said quietly.
A crow called in the distance. A breeze moved the oak leaves above.
Jedediah looked down, fingers laced in his lap. “Didn’t seem right, me talking while others cried. Never been good at saying things out loud.”
He smiled faintly. “You knew that, though.”
He looked at the stone, the name carved deep.
“I was twelve,” he said. “Scared. Mad at God. Mad at Levi for dying. Mad at everything, I think. You didn’t ask questions. You just let me sit in your kitchen while the soup boiled. You let me sleep under your roof without asking if I deserved to.”
He picked up a small pebble, turned it in his fingers. “I thought you were just being kind. Later, I understood—you were obeying. You always said the Word wasn’t just for reading. It was for doing.”
The breeze settled. The morning was still.
“You raised me until I was twenty-five. Taught me scripture. Patience. Discipline. Even gave me the chance to stand in your place.”
Jedediah paused. “I know you wanted me to take the pulpit.”
He looked down. His voice softened.
“I didn’t say no because I didn’t believe. I said no because I did. I just... I never felt called to preach. Not like you. I hear God clearer in the quiet, not the shouting. In the shovel, not the sermon.”
A bird landed on a nearby branch, then flew off again.
“I chose gravekeeping,” he said. “Gravewatching, some say. It’s simple. But it’s honest. I can serve there, in my way.”
He reached forward and gently touched the corner of the headstone.
“I never asked why you didn’t marry again.”
He smiled. “But I figured it out. You told me once—‘A man’s word before God is a binding thing.’ You loved her. Missed her every day. You said the Bible was clear. ‘Til death do us part.’ And when death parted you, you stayed parted.”
He leaned back, folding his hands behind his head as he looked at the sky.
“Maybe that’s why you understood me so well. We both carried ghosts. Me, a mother I never knew. You, a wife you never forgot.”
The wind picked up again, soft and warm. The kind of wind Earl used to call “an early whisper from heaven.”
Jedediah closed his eyes.
“Thank you,” he said, simply.
For a long time, he said nothing more. He didn’t need to. The soil, the sky, the stillness—they all heard enough.
And when he finally rose to his feet, brushing off the back of his pants, he felt lighter. Not healed. Not whole. But carried.
He tipped his head to the stone in farewell and walked slowly back toward the church, one footstep at a time, the wind trailing behind him like a blessing.
Chapter 3
The Silence, Then the Storm
After a moment, he stood. The sun had begun to burn through the fog, and he turned to walk toward the chapel path. But just beyond the old fence, he saw movement.
Three figures approached—Alice Bourne, her eldest, Tamara, and little Judith, walking along the dusty edge of Bayou Road. Alice carried a basket, likely full of jam or bread for one of the neighbors.
“Jedediah,” Alice called gently, lifting her hand.
He nodded. “Alice.”
“We’re heading to visit Miss Greta. She took a fall last week.”Tamara gave him a shy smile. Judith waved, then ducked behind her mother’s skirt.
Alice stepped closer. “You been out here since morning?”
“Had to sit with him a while.”
“We miss him too,” she said. “He baptized Jesse and me the year we got married. I remember him standing in that old white robe, voice shaking a little. Said it was one of the happiest duties of his life.”
Jedediah smiled faintly. “He said that same thing when he baptized me.”
Tamara piped up, “Were you scared?”
“I was twelve. I was scared of everything,” Jedediah said gently. “But he wasn’t. That helped.”
Judith’s voice came out soft: “Do you see ghosts?”
Alice opened her mouth to scold, but Jedediah chuckled. “Not the kind you’re thinking of.”
The girls laughed, and Alice gave a small shake of her head. “If you ever want supper, Jedediah, you’re welcome at our table.”
“Appreciate it.”
They turned to continue toward Miss Greta’s, and Jedediah began to head toward the back of the chapel—when the sky tore open.
A searing white bolt of lightning came down from nowhere.
There was no thunder beforehand, no warning wind. Just a flash—and Jedediah’s body flew backward, hitting the ground with a sickening thud. Smoke curled from his shoulder. His eyes fluttered, then shut.
Alice screamed. The basket dropped. Tamara grabbed Judith and pulled her close.
““Stay here!” Alice ran to him, knelt beside his still form. Her hands trembled as she searched for signs of life. A faint pulse. Shallow breath.
“Somebody call an ambulance!” she shouted.
Moments later, the wail of a siren cut through the air. The ambulance pulled up fast, tires skidding on loose gravel. Two EMTs jumped out, worked quickly and without words.
They loaded Jedediah into the back. Alice stood by, clutching her arms, watching them secure his limp body.
The doors slammed. The ambulance tore down the road, twisting past old cotton fields and weather-worn shacks, but none of it registered.
Back in the dust, Alice stood watching. Judith clutched her skirt.
Tamara stared silently at the smoking patch of ground.
Alice’s voice, low and shaken, barely reached them:
“That wasn’t just weather.”
Chapter 4
Between Heaven and Earth
The room was silent but humming—soft machines blinking, tubes connected to arms, and the pale wash of early morning light pushing through the curtains.
Jedediah lay still.
But he wasn’t there.
He drifted through clouds, weightless. A soft wind wrapped around him like a garment, and his feet touched nothing. There was no pain. No shovel. No blood. Just peace and sky.
And then he saw it—a city, distant and rising like a crown of light. Its walls shimmered with colors he had no names for. Gemstones glittered in the towers. Streets shone like clear gold. And from within its heart, a river of life poured out, winding through groves of trees that bore fruit he somehow recognized, though he had never seen it before.
He stepped forward.
But just as he drew close enough to touch the gates—
A voice came, not loud but deeper than thunder:
“It’s not your time. Not today.”
He woke with a jolt.
The ceiling was white. His chest ached. IV lines tugged at his arm. His mouth tasted like metal and cotton. But most of all, his body felt heavy again. He was back in the world of pain and gravity.
Beside the bed sat a man in a black coat, Bible open on his lap.
“Welcome back, son,” said Pastor Greg Henry Collins with a warm, gravelly drawl. “Had the nurses thinking you’d skip out on us.”
Jedediah blinked. “Where... where am I?”
“Oak Mercy. You were struck by lightning. Out cold for a day and some. Alice and her girls called for help. They saved you.”
Jedediah looked at his hands. “I saw something. A place.”
Greg nodded slowly. “Yeah, folks do, sometimes. Visions come close when the body’s near death. But you ain’t in heaven. Not yet.” He smiled, leaned forward. “Still here. Still breathin’. And by the looks of it, still needed.”
There was silence between them, rich and reverent. Then Greg added softly, “Earl would’ve said the same thing.”
Jedediah turned toward him.
Greg met his eyes. “I know I’m not him. I don’t fill his shoes the same way. But I try to walk the path.”
Pastor Earl Williams’ pulpit had not stayed empty for long after his passing. Greg Collins had taken it up, humbly, with a cracked voice and calloused hands. The town didn’t love him quite the same—but he earned their respect with truth.
Jedediah closed his eyes. “Felt like home. Like peace.”
Greg sighed and placed a hand on his Bible. “Maybe it was a taste. Or maybe it was mercy—God’s way of reminding you that the work down here’s not done.”
He stood and poured him some water. “You’re lucky. Or blessed, depending how you see it. But I don’t think God’s done with you yet, gravekeeper.”
Jedediah smirked faintly. “That’s all I ever wanted. Not to preach. Just dig. Remember.”
Greg chuckled. “You know how many pastors I’ve known who should’ve been anything but preachers?”
Jedediah raised a brow.
“Too many,” Greg said. “Slick men with clean suits and filthy souls. Some don’t know the Word—they just know how to scare people. Others are God’s men on Sunday, and godless bastards the rest of the week.”
Jedediah looked surprised.
Greg’s tone softened. “You choosing the quiet work? That might just be the holiest thing I’ve seen this year. Don’t ever feel small for it.”
He placed the Bible down on the tray beside the bed and leaned closer. “Not every man who wears a robe is chosen. And not every man who shovels dirt is forgotten.”
Jedediah’s eyes grew wet, but he didn’t let the tears fall.
Greg smiled. “You just take your time healing, son. There’s something waiting for you back in that graveyard, I reckon. And it ain’t just the dead.”
Chapter 5
Broken Deals and Broken Bones
Bayou Road smelled like sweat, piss, and gasoline.
Adolf Pine stood outside an abandoned laundromat, cigarette between his lips, the sun slouching low behind him. His backpack hung loose on one arm—inside, four fat rocks wrapped tight and dirty. Enough to get five kids fucked up and one cop paid off.
Two teens walked up. One had peach fuzz and nervous eyes. The other wore a Saints hoodie and acted tougher than he was.
“You got the shit?” Hoodie asked.
Adolf grinned. “Do I look like I came here to fucking pray?”
“Damn, man, relax,” Nervous said. “You said thirty.”
Adolf squinted. “Yeah, well, I say a lot of shit. Forty each. Price went up. Inflation and all that government bullshit.”
“Fuckin’ highway robbery,” Hoodie muttered.
“You’re lucky I don’t charge you for standing here breathing, motherfucker.” Adolf flicked his cigarette into the gutter. “You want it or not?”
They passed him the cash. Quick hands, shifty eyes.
“Goddamn,” Nervous said as he grabbed the foil packet. “You always this much of a prick?”
Adolf laughed. “Only when I’m awake.”
Then—
WEEEOOOWWW.
Police sirens. Close.
Adolf’s head snapped up. “Fuck—RUN!”
From the corner came Officer Chuck, yelling like a dog off his leash.
“GET ON THE FUCKING GROUND!”
The boys turned to run but Chuck was on them fast. He grabbed Hoodie by the back of the neck and slammed him face-first into a mailbox, then kicked Nervous square in the gut.
“I said DOWN, you little shits!”
“WE DIDN’T EVEN—” Nervous tried to crawl.
Chuck stepped on his back. “Don’t even THINK about movin’, junkie.”
“I’m not a fucking junkie!”
Chuck barked a laugh. “You are now.”
Meanwhile, Adolf was already sprinting. Through bushes, behind trailers, over fences.
Officer Randall came into view behind him, yelling, “PINE! STOP RUNNING, YOU SON OF A BITCH!”
Adolf flipped him off over his shoulder. “FUCK YOU, RANDALL!”
He kept running. His lungs burned. His leg ached. He heard Randall getting closer—but he knew the turns, the shortcuts.
Then it happened.
A police car roared out from a side road—no siren, just fury.
BAM.
The bumper slammed into Adolf’s right leg. The crack echoed off the trees. He went down screaming.
“FUUUUUUUCK! MY FUCKING LEG!”
Chuck stepped out of the car, grinning like the devil.
“Told you not to run, bitch.”
Adolf writhed, clutching his leg. “You fucking CRIPPLED me!”
Chuck walked over and kicked Adolf in the head, hard.
“Oops.”
Randall arrived seconds later, breathing heavy. “What the FUCK, man?! You hit him with the car?!”
Chuck shrugged. “Couldn’t let the fucker get away.”
“We needed him fucking alive!”
“He is alive,” Chuck said, lighting a cigarette. “He’s just gonna limp funny for the rest of his junkie-ass life.”
Randall stared down at Adolf, blood pouring from his scalp. “Goddamn, Chuck.”
Chuck blew smoke toward the sky. “That’s Bayou justice, baby.”
Adolf lay in the dirt, twitching, blood soaking into his jeans, groaning through clenched teeth.
“FUCK! FUCK! You broke my goddamn leg!”
“You broke it running from the law,” Chuck replied flatly, dragging him up by the armpits like a sack of garbage. “Actions, consequences, ya know?”
Adolf screamed, then bit down hard on his own jacket to stop himself from passing out.
Randall opened the cruiser door. “Let’s move him before someone with a camera shows up.”
They half-dragged, half-shoved Adolf into the back seat. He spat blood on the window and shouted, “I’LL SUE EVERY ONE OF YOU DIRTY COCKSUCKERS! COBBLER TOO!”
Chuck slammed the door shut with a grin. “Loud little shit for a guy who’s gonna be pissing in a bag for six months.”
Over in the second cruiser, the two teenagers sat cuffed and trembling. One of them was trying not to cry. The other already was.
“I didn’t even do anything, man,” Hoodie mumbled, nose bleeding. “My mom’s gonna kill me.”
Nervous sniffled hard, blinking back tears. “This is so fucked. This is so fucking fucked.”
Chuck sauntered back toward Randall, cracking open a can of beer from the cooler in the trunk. “Here,” he said, tossing one to Randall. “We earned it.”
Randall caught it, popped the tab. “What happened to not drinking on duty?”
Chuck took a drag off his cigarette. “We’re off-duty when there’s no witnesses.”
They leaned on the hood of the squad car, watching the mess settle: blue lights flickering across the bayou, kids crying in the cage, Adolf slumped and snarling behind fogged-up glass.
Chuck raised his beer. “To keeping this shithole clean.”
Randall clinked his can against Chuck’s. “To kicking dirtbags in the teeth.”
They drank. They smoked.
Behind them, Adolf coughed up blood and screamed another curse no one really heard.
Chapter 6
Broken Justice
The jailhouse door screamed open on rusty hinges.
Sheriff Dwayne Cobbler stood like a judge from some backwater purgatory, arms folded, a splintered toothpick twitching in the corner of his grin. Behind him, the soft flicker of buzzing fluorescent lights hummed like flies over something dead.
Chuck and Randall dragged in Adolf Pine, his body busted, leg swollen like overripe fruit. Two teenagers shuffled in behind, wrists cuffed, red-faced and sniffling, eyes wide like they’d just woken up in hell.
“Well, well, well,” Cobbler said, slow drawl rolling off his tongue. “Bravo, gentlemen. Brought in a big fuckin’ fish tonight.”
Chuck laughed and slapped the busted wall with his palm. “Bastard thought he could outrun a cruiser. I made sure he felt the bumper.”
Randall grumbled. “He’s lucky to still have a leg. Smashed up my fucking car too.”
Cobbler walked up to Adolf, crouching down till their faces were inches apart. “You look like you been chewed up by God’s worst dog.”
Adolf spat blood on the sheriff’s boot. “Fuck off.”
Cobbler didn’t even blink. He stood up, wiped the spit with the sole of Adolf’s hoodie. “Where’s your boss, Pine?”
Adolf smirked through cracked lips. “Don’t got no fucking credit. And your tin cop broke my screen, asshole.”
Cobbler turned to Randall. “Give him your phone.”
Randall stiffened. “Come on, Chief. He’s gonna—”
“I said give it,” Cobbler barked.
Reluctantly, Randall handed it over. Adolf snatched it, fingers trembling, punched in a number—
—and smashed it against the steel bench, glass shattering like ice.
“FUCK your phone!” Adolf yelled, voice raw. “Charge that to the fucking state!”
Randall lunged. “YOU PIECE OF SHIT!”
Chuck burst out laughing. Cobbler too. “Son of a bitch got jokes. That was worth the damage.”
Then Cobbler’s face turned cold. “Beat him. But don’t kill.”
Randall ripped the cell open like a dog unchained.
Adolf tried to drag himself backward, groaning, but he was done.
CRACK. Baton across the ribs.
CRACK. Back, thigh, shoulder.
Randall jabbed the taser into his side. BZZZT.
Adolf’s body spasmed. He coughed blood, begged, “Fuck—stop...”
Randall didn’t.
He kicked him. Beat him. Electrocuted him again.
Adolf was twitching on the floor like a broken marionette, leg bent at a sick angle.
After five minutes, Cobbler held up a hand. “Enough.”
Randall stepped out, panting, baton dripping red. “Fucker’s lucky I didn’t break his skull.”
Chuck tossed him a beer. “That’s what the badge is for, brother.”
They clinked cans, lit smokes, and left Adolf bleeding in the dark.
Cobbler stood by the bars, watching Adolf tremble. “You’ll call him. Tomorrow. And if you don’t, we’ll pull out your teeth one by one and still make you smile.”
Then he shut off the lights.
Chapter 7
The Weight of Quiet Things
The cemetery was still, save for the soft hiss of wind weaving through Spanish moss and iron fence. Nick White Owl stood alone among the stones, hat in hand, boots planted in wet grass. The sky above Bayou County was bruised with early dusk, the clouds swollen and heavy.
He stared down at the granite slab:
Pastor Earl Williams — 1948–2020 — Faithful Servant of Lord.
Nick knelt beside it, his hand brushing mud from the engraving.
“You baptized me the day before I shipped out,” he said softly. “Didn’t even ask why a boy like me wanted it. You just said... ‘If a man asks for water, don’t question his thirst.’”
His voice caught in his throat.
“I saw men die in Fallujah. Saw things that don’t leave you. But that one day, your hand on my back, water on my head... That stayed. You didn’t teach with fear. You lived it. Love your enemies. Turn the other cheek. I thought it was bullshit. Until I saw men shoot strangers and die empty.”
He paused, staring into the silence.
“I was there when Saddam Hussein got hanged. Not in the room, but close. Folks cheered like it was a football game. But you know what I saw, Pastor? I saw fear in their faces. That kind of fear that don’t go away when the devil dies. We killed a man and expected peace to rise up like smoke. But it didn’t. Just more noise. More dirt. Even the desert didn’t feel lighter.”
He sat there a while. Not praying. Just breathing.
When he rose, the sun had dipped, leaving a deep red across the horizon. His truck rumbled to life, coughing diesel into the cooling air. He took Bayou Road until the neon buzz of Sandoz Bar bled through the fog.
Inside, the place smelled like bourbon, fry grease, and old music. A jukebox played Merle Haggard. Pool balls clacked in lazy rhythm. At the far end, a man in a trucker cap waved him over.
“Nick White Owl as I live and cuss,” said Albert Petit, pulling up a chair. He looked wiry and sunburned, an old patch of army camo on his sleeve.
“Didn’t think you drank anymore,” Nick said.
“I don’t. Not unless I’m celebratin’ or mournin’. Tonight I’m doin’ both.”
Nick raised an eyebrow.
Albert leaned in, whispering, “I’m leavin’ the country.”
“The fuck for?”
“Canada. I’m tired, Nick. Done with the heat, the memory, the goddamn taxes.”
Nick smirked. “They got taxes up there too.”
“Yeah, but at least the guilt freezes quicker.”
They both laughed. Then Albert slapped the table.
“I need you to take something off my hands. Her name’s Lucinda. She’s tall, stubborn, spits at men she don’t like.”
Nick blinked. “You sellin’ me a woman?”
Albert grinned. “Hell no. I’m sellin’ you a llama.”
Nick coughed into his beer.
“A llama?”
Albert nodded. “Got her off a rancher up near Shreveport. She keeps coyotes away, don’t eat much, and she likes hymns. Swear to Christ.”
Nick leaned back in his seat, looking amused and half-serious. “You always been a strange bastard, Albert.”
“Don’t say you’re surprised.”
The jukebox flipped songs. Hank Williams now. Something sad and slow.
Nick tapped his glass. “What do I do with a goddamn llama?”
Albert smiled. “Same thing we do with ourselves, friend. Keep her fed. Keep her warm. And pray she don’t spit on your neighbors.”
They laughed again, and for a moment, neither of them were carrying the war.
Later, they stepped outside. Albert led Nick to a trailer behind the bar. Tied to a wooden fence was a long-necked, wooly creature with oversized eyelashes and an attitude.
Nick tilted his head. “That a baby camel?”
Albert chuckled. “That’s Lucinda. She’s a llama.”
Nick squinted. “Looks like the ones they’d load ammo on in Iraq. We had camels mostly. But same face. Different color.”
He scratched his chin. “You know... Some boys in my unit, when rations ran low, they grilled camel hump. Swore it was tender. I didn’t touch it.”
Albert raised a brow. “Why not?”
Nick shrugged. “Just felt wrong. We use ‘em for transport, for movin’ weight, carryin’ our shit. Same reason I’d never eat a horse. Or a donkey. Or a damn ox. Ain’t right. Ain’t moral.”
Albert nodded slow. “That’s why you’re still sane.”
Nick pointed at the llama. “Why’d you even buy this thing?”
Albert sighed. “Clara needed her for a university thesis. Animal behavior. Something fancy and French. Then Clara switched to marine biology, and Lucinda didn’t fit in no fish tank.”
As if on cue, Lucinda stepped forward—and spat straight into Albert’s face.
Albert wiped his cheek, muttering, “She likes to test boundaries.”
Nick snorted. “She’s got charm.”
Albert managed to calm her with a firm pat and a soft hum. “She hates loud men. But she likes gospel.”
Nick chuckled. “She’ll do just fine in Bayou County.”
Albert took a rope, starting to tie Lucinda’s harness. A voice called out, “Don’t tie her too tight, Dad!”
A young woman approached, auburn hair in a ponytail, wide smile beneath tired eyes. “Hey, Uncle Nick.”
“Clara, Lord. Last time I saw you, you were still wearing braces.”
Clara grinned. “I hope Lucinda’ll be happy with you.”
Nick nodded. “How old is she?”
“Three,” Clara replied.
Nick raised an eyebrow. “She needs more than weed. She needs balls, too!”
They all laughed.
Albert added, “I got her from Gonzalo Gomez, local breeder up near the lake. I’ll send you his number in case she gets frisky.”
Nick took the rope and led Lucinda toward his pickup.
“She spit on anyone else?” he asked.
“Only folks who lie,” Clara said.
Nick smiled. “Then she’s gonna hate half this damn county.”
Lucinda stepped into the truck bed without fuss, huffed once, and laid down like a queen on her wooly throne. Nick shut the tailgate and climbed into the truck, the engine rumbling back to life.
Albert tipped his hat. “Drive safe.”
Nick gave a small salute. “You too, Canada.”
And he drove off into the southern dusk, a baptized man with a llama named Lucinda and a quiet storm inside him.
Chapter 8
The Walk and the Wing
Jedediah stepped out of Oak Hospital just past nine in the morning. The sun hung low and gold, washing the road in a fresh light. The air hit him like grace—a breeze not of wind but of freedom, of breath returned. A few passing cars stirred dust as they drove toward the town’s edge, but Jedediah paid them no mind. His feet were light, as though healing had taken weight from his bones.
He paused under the hospital awning, pulled out the flip phone he still clung to, and dialed a number burned into memory.
"Alice? It's me," he said when she answered. "I just wanted to say thank you—for the bouquet, the visit... for everything. I'm all right now."
Alice’s voice was bright and warm, even with road noise behind her. “We were so worried, Jed. Jesse wanted to come get you—hang on.”
The phone crackled. Jesse’s voice came through, rough but genuine. “Hey, you sure you don’t want a ride, brother? We’re just down by the Co-Op, five minutes tops.”
Jedediah shook his head, though no one could see it. “I appreciate it, Jesse. But it’s just two miles. I want to walk. I feel good enough for it.”
Jesse grunted a little. “You sure? Ain’t no sin in riding.”
“I’m sure.”
They exchanged a few more words before the call ended with a click and a stillness that felt like peace.
He walked slowly at first, pacing himself, past the wooden fence that lined the hospital’s east lot, down toward Bayou Road. About half a mile along, the sun climbed higher, and cicadas started their slow drumming in the trees.
That’s when he saw it.
Under a sprawling oak, lying amidst the tall grass, was a bird. A small thing, yellow with black wings—an American Goldfinch, maybe hurt by the storm or struck by some passing car. Its wings twitched but didn’t move. It made no sound.
Jedediah knelt.
Carefully, like handling a communion wafer, he cupped the fragile body in both hands. The bird’s eyes fluttered, barely conscious. Its chest moved, but barely.
He bowed his head. “Lord Jesus, you see this creature. You breathe life into sparrows and lilies. If it be your will, let your healing flow. I ask not for show, not for proof—but because you are a good God, and mercy is in your nature.”
The prayer was soft, spoken like a secret.
He held the bird gently. His hands warmed with sunlight.
A moment passed.
Then another.
And then—the Goldfinch stirred. First, its wing shuddered. Then its head lifted. A chip broke through the silence—clear, high, defiant.
Jedediah blinked. The bird leapt from his palms like a flame set free, wings cutting the air in perfect rhythm. It flew to the branches above, chirping once more, alive.
Jedediah stared upward, wonder flooding his chest.
“Thank you, Lord,” he whispered.
And he kept walking.
As the little goldfinch soared into the sky, chirping like nothing had ever been wrong, Jedediah stood still beneath the branches, his hands warm, his eyes soft. He smiled, quietly, then kept walking down Bayou Road, past the empty lots and sagging porches, until the green sign of Lincoln Mart came into view.
He stepped inside, the bell above the door jingling.
Cool air met his skin. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. He grabbed a few essentials—milk, bread, cold ham, and some frozen dinners. At the counter stood Germain Lincoln, the Mart’s wiry, grizzled owner with a crooked smile and a nose that had clearly been broken a few times too many.
“Well, well,” Germain said, ringing up the items. “Look who walked out the hospital like Lazarus.”
Jedediah chuckled. “Feeling close to it.”
“You know what?” Germain leaned forward. “It’s on the house today.”
Jedediah blinked. “What—really?”
Germain nodded. “Yeah. You don’t know this, but the afternoon you got hit—right ‘round then—some fool came in here with a knife, tried to rob me. Then outta nowhere—bam! Ambulance siren wails past the store. Must’ve been yours. Scared that bastard stiff. He bolted and left the knife behind.”
He reached under the counter and pulled out a rusty switchblade sealed in a plastic bag.
“Didn’t even say a word. Just ran. I figure that siren might’ve saved my damn life.”
Jedediah smiled, quiet and grateful. “Well... sounds like we both got spared.”
Germain nodded and handed him the bag. “Don’t waste it, son.”
Jedediah thanked him, stepped back into the bright afternoon sun, groceries in hand, and continued his walk home with the warm wind curling around his coat.
Chapter 9
Collection Day
The sun hadn’t fully risen when the two fathers showed up at the Bayou County Police Department. Downey Blake wore a pressed shirt and polished boots, hiding the desperation that weighed on his shoulders. Will Howard carried a brown envelope—sweat blooming in his armpits like guilty stains. They had come to buy back their sons: Timothy Blake and Josh Howard.
Sheriff Dwayne Cobbler sat behind his desk, sipping from a cup that definitely didn’t hold coffee. Chuck Kensington leaned against the file cabinet, and Randall Jaques tapped away on his phone.
“You boys got somethin’ for me?” Cobbler asked, not bothering to stand.
Downey cleared his throat. “We brought the cash. Like you said.”
Will placed the envelope on the desk. Cobbler opened it lazily, flipping through the money like old receipts.
“That’s... generous,” Cobbler said, tone flat. “But I want more. We’re not doin’ this for free. Not just cash, I want the rest in e-wallet.”
“E-wallet?” Downey asked.
Randall piped up. “Crypto, bank transfer, cash app. Don’t matter. What matters is we don’t send the boys to juvenile lockup. Or worse—have Chuck here get creative with his boots.”
Chuck grinned and cracked his knuckles. “Tell you what, fellas. Gimme more, or worst things happen. Your boys made mistakes, sure—but you fuck this up, and it’ll be their teeth beggin’ for forgiveness.”
Begrudgingly, Downey and Will pulled out their phones. Cobbler directed them to a burner QR code. The transfer went through. Chuck and Randall both checked their notifications.
“Pleasure doin’ business,” Cobbler said. “Boys’ll be out in a minute.”
As Timothy and Josh were quietly escorted out, their faces pale and eyes red, Detective Johnny White entered. He looked between the fathers, the deputies, and Cobbler.
“Well ain’t this a good ol’ Bayou family reunion,” Johnny said. “I suppose justice took a little nap today?”
Cobbler chuckled. “I’m the law, Johnny. Don’t forget it.”
Johnny shook his head but said nothing. He wasn’t here to die on a hill that would bury him tomorrow.
Later that afternoon, a familiar black car pulled up behind the station. Angelo Politano stepped out—sharp suit, slick hair, tired eyes. He didn’t knock. He never had to.
Inside, Cobbler stood waiting.
“Right on time,” the Sheriff said. “Collection day.”
Angelo handed him a thick envelope, then a second.
“Adolf again?” Cobbler asked.
Angelo nodded. “Fucker never learns.”
Randall laughed. “He ain’t supposed to. That’s the business.”
“Yeah,” Cobbler said, counting bills. “And we’re the goddamn cat. He’s just the mouse.”
No one needed to say more. They all understood the game. And in Bayou County, the house always won.
The jail cell smelled like rust and stale sweat. Adolf Pine sat slumped against the cold wall, his right leg throbbing, jaw aching, one tooth gone where Randall’s boot had found its mark. Blood crusted his shirt and smeared the cracked concrete floor.
Through the bars, a shadow moved. The black SUV waited outside, but inside the station, only one man carried weight.
Angelo Politano clicked a lighter, the small flame flickering in the dim light. He drew in a slow drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling upward before he spoke.
“You look like shit, Adolf,” Angelo said, not even smiling.
Adolf spat blood on the pavement. “I need a fucking hospital. That fat fuck Chuck ran me over. Randall shocked my balls. I got a headache from being kicked in the skull. And I lost a goddamn tooth!”
Angelo nodded slowly. “You want me to kiss it better?”
“I want fucking justice!” Adolf shouted. “Those pigs treated me like trash. I’m bleeding. I’m broken. I’m your fucking employee and they almost killed me!”
Angelo raised an eyebrow. “Employee?”
Adolf caught himself. “Partner. Shit, you know what I mean.”
Angelo reached under the seat and pulled out a small plastic bag. A few fat shards of crystal meth sat like jagged stars inside. He tossed it into Adolf’s lap.
“You want justice,” Angelo said. “I want quiet. You heal fast when you stay numb.”
Adolf stared at the bag. His hands trembled. Then his voice cracked like old wood.
“I ain’t fucking using. Not after this. I want them dead. Cobbler. Randall. Even that prick Chuck. They play the cat-and-mouse game like they own the goddamn board.”
Angelo chuckled. “They do own the board. You just run on it.”
Adolf screamed and hurled the meth bag into the wall. “FUCK the board! Fuck you too if you just sit there while they break my fucking bones for sport!”
Angelo sighed. “You done?”
Adolf turned away, breathing hard, red in the face.
“I know how to run a business,” Angelo said coolly. “This ain’t about right or wrong. It’s about profit. And you—” he pointed at Adolf, “—you still make me money. Even if you’re limping.”
There was a long silence.
Then Angelo added, “Next time, don’t get caught. Or at least don’t smash the fucking cop’s phone.”
Adolf’s eyes narrowed. “Next time... maybe I smash someone else’s fucking head.”
Angelo didn’t flinch. “That would be your last mistake.”
The SUV drove off slowly, leaving Adolf alone in the alley—aching, furious, but alive
Chapter 10
The Big One
The sun rode high over Bayou County, casting its hard light on the cracked dirt roads and leaning fences. Jedediah Johnson walked the familiar path toward the home of Nick White Owl, his friend of nearly Sixteen years. They’d been close ever since Nick returned from Iraq, changed but steady, carrying an invisible weight that Jed never pressed too hard to name.
Nick stood in the yard, holding a feed bucket. By his side stood a shaggy, curious-eyed llama.
Jed narrowed his eyes, grinning. “You raise it?”
Nick nodded. “Yeah. Her name’s Lucinda.”
Jed tilted his head. “Is she for food or somethin’?”
Nick chuckled, deep and certain. “Absolutely not for meat. She’s a pet.”
Jed laughed. “Good. Would’ve had to call you a sinner right here.”
They clasped shoulders like brothers and shared a moment of silence. Then Nick’s eyes sharpened with concern.
“I heard you went down. Lightning?”
Jed nodded. “Clean strike. Passed out for a while. Didn’t see heaven. Didn’t see hell either.”
Nick scratched Lucinda’s neck. “God don’t speak through thunder. He speaks through peace.”
Jed didn’t reply, just watched Lucinda munch grass like nothing in the world could touch her.
“I’m lookin’ for a male,” Nick said suddenly. “Wanna get her company. You up for a ride to Gomez’s farm?”
“Always,” Jed said.
They drove in Nick’s rust-red pickup, Lucinda watching them from the back like a quiet guardian. As the fields rolled by, Nick broke the silence.
“Lucinda reminds me of a baby camel I saw in Iraq. Same eyes. Different coat. We ate the adults sometimes—well, not we, but the others. I wouldn’t touch that. Camels... horses... donkeys... ox. They carry our burdens. Not supposed to eat what carries you.”
Jed nodded slowly. “Makes sense to me.”
The gravel crunched under Nick White Owl’s boots as he and Jedediah Johnson stepped out of the truck at the edge of Gonzalo Gomez’s land. The place smelled like hay, sweat, and the distant hum of diesel. A corral stretched out beyond the barn, and inside it stood four llamas—each one tall, thick-shouldered, and alert.
Gonzalo Gomez met them at the fence. Square-faced, denim shirt buttoned tight, he held a clipboard and a suspicious stare.
Nick offered a hand. “You Gonzalo?”
“Depends who’s askin’,” the man replied.
“Nick White Owl. Albert Petit said you might have a stud for sale.”
Gonzalo grunted and shook Nick’s hand, then gave Jed a nod. “Albert still owe me from that goat mess in ‘18.”
Jed laughed. “Sounds about right.”
Nick pointed toward the animals. “I’m lookin’ for a male. Big one. Got a girl at home needs company.”
Gonzalo led them into the corral. “That one there,” he said, gesturing at a thick-chested llama with a dark brown coat and a single white patch over its nose. “He’s the biggest I’ve got. Eats like a cow, kicks like a mule, and don’t like folks walkin’ behind him.”
Nick studied the beast. “How old?”
“Four. Prime years. Strong genes.”
Jed leaned in. “What’s the price?”
Gonzalo sniffed. “Two thousand.”
Nick whistled low. “That’s city money.”
Gonzalo folded his arms. “That’s stud money. You want a runt, I got cheaper.”
Nick scratched his chin, watching the llama flick its ears. “I’ll give you fifteen.”
“Seventeen,” Gonzalo shot back, without pause.
Jed muttered, “That’s a truck and a half...”
Nick smirked. “Sixteen fifty. Cash. Today.”
Gonzalo hesitated, then grinned. “You boys don’t quit easy. Deal.”
They shook hands. Nick took the rope and walked the big male toward the truck. The llama grunted once but followed.
Jed could imagine Lucinda and the new bull standing side by side—roped like royalty, waiting on ceremony.
“Names?” Jed asked.
Nick thought for a second. “Lucinda and Romeo.”
Jed chuckled. “Let’s hope they don’t end up like the original.”
Nick’s truck rumbled slow down Bayou Road, the sun sinking low and painting the sky in burnt orange. Behind, tied in the bed, was Romeo — the big male llama, eyes steady and wool thick. Lucinda was still back at Nick’s pen, waiting for her new companion.
Jedediah sat beside Nick, watching the road and the fading light.
“You ever think about raisin’ more than one?” Nick asked, glancing at Jed. “Could use a hand with the grass and feedin’. Couple llamas ain’t so bad.”
Jedediah shrugged. “I’m good with that. Never raised animals proper, but I’ll learn.”
Nick smiled. “You’re a quick learner, Jed. Quiet, steady. Good traits.”
They drove on, quiet for a moment, until flashing blue lights appeared behind them.
Nick cursed low. “Shit. Here comes trouble.”
The truck slowed and pulled over. Chuck Kensington and Randall Jaques stepped out, faces hard and eyes sharp.
Chuck walked up, looking at Romeo. “What we got here, Nick?”
Nick kept his voice steady. “Romeo. Just bought him.”
Randall leaned over, grimacing, and Romeo spat—right on Randall’s cheek.
Randall wiped his face, snarling, “Goddamn it! You little shit!”
He pulled his pistol, aiming at the llama.
“Easy,” Nick said. “He won’t hurt you.”
Randall growled, “Either you pay up or this bastard gets put down.”
Nick shook his head. “Spent all I got on him.”
Jedediah reached into his pocket, pulling out thick hundred-dollar bills. “I got some.”
Chuck grinned, counting the money. “Hundred a head. You’re lucky this afternoon.”
Jed handed over the cash. Randall lowered the pistol and waved them off.
As the cruiser sped away, Nick muttered, “Goddamn corrupt cops.”
Jed met his eyes. “Even if they pray on Sunday, they’re weeds among the wheat.”
Nick nodded grimly. “Sheriff Cobbler, Randall, Chuck—they run this county like their own personal kingdom. They bend the law, shake down folks like us, and call it justice. Ain’t no peace under their watch.”
Jed sighed. “Corruption’s a cancer. Hard to root out when it grows in the ones who swear to protect.”
Nick glanced back at Romeo in the bed. “We just keep moving forward. Quiet and steady. Same as always.”The truck rolled on, carrying a new burden and a quiet determination.
