Thurston’s bungalow, the former parsonage that he now rented, had just one bed. But he insisted Evan take it. The senior man stretched out on the couch. He was so tall that his calves stuck out over an armrest and his size-twelve feet dangled in the air. But he had a horsehair blanket and a stout pair of woolen socks.
It rained all night, and as dawn broke there was a perceptible chill in the room, not least because of his guest’s mood. Now the dark clouds were retreating, and the sun was peeking through.
Evan hadn’t slept at all. He’d counted every raindrop.
Marcus was up with the chickens, as was his habit. He had instant coffee made by the time the preacher decided it was no use pretending to sleep. He took care to make Evan’s extra-strong, with a generous helping of sugar, which he
