bones that something had changed in her world and there would be no going back from the moment it revealed itself to her.
She moves out of bed carefully, naked, and kneels at his feet.
What? she asks, grasping his hands, pressing his knuckles to her lips. He stares down at her, his expression unreadable and it scares her so much she pulls herself closer to him, resting her head on his lap. Now the accident is in her head, a thought takes hold, and she can’t help but ask: Is it Lo?
The question shakes Lev from his reverie and he presses his palm against her cheek and while the tenderness of his touch soothes her, the slight tremble in his hand worries her more.
Rob has left The Project.
She doesn’t understand. How could anyone leave them? Even Rob. She’d thought he was getting better—they had worked so hard to correct him, to show him the path—but now, Lev tells her, he’s fled.
He left a note.
Lev reaches into his pocket and hands it to her. She rises, reading by moonlight, and while she reads, Lev pulls her between his legs and buries his face against her. She presses her free hand against the back of his curls as every single one of Rob’s words burns into her. Rob came to The Project to help people, to help this shit-infested world shine, but he only feels he’s traded one cesspit for another.
We started out so promising. I could feel God through you, but now I believe you have claimed yourself as God and I believe this has corrupted you. I do not feel God anymore.
Bea shakes her head slowly, her anger rising; she has never seen a more abiding servant to the Lord than Lev. She skims the rest of Rob’s grievances. They have taken from him, he says, the last five years of his life and he wants all he has given in the name of God returned to him.
Lev stares at her expectantly when she’s done.
He had no faith, she says.
No, Lev agrees quietly. He didn’t.
JANUARY 2018
Arthur lives at the edge of Morel. The clean, unadorned lines of his property strike me as lonely in the same way my apartment sometimes strikes me as lonely, a space its inhabitant doesn’t quite know how to occupy. Sometimes, when I step inside my place, it feels like a language I’ve forgotten how to speak and the days I feel that way are the days I most remember what it was like to have a home and a family—and what it means to not have those things anymore.
His house is across from a small park, empty this time of year. I sit on a bench, facing the street, watching his front door, waiting to see what, if any, Project detractors will find themselves in front of it. It’s cold out, the metal of the bench numbing the backs of my thighs, my eyes watering from the bitter air as much as the deep, thrumming ache it causes in my bones. I could have driven the Buick out but an idling car parked close enough to Arthur’s house for a good view struck me as a little conspicuous.
I check my watch. It’s almost time. When I glance up, there’s a fluttering behind the curtain covering Arthur’s front window. I imagine him pacing anxiously behind it, hopeful.
I’m hopeful too; there have to be more stories like mine and his.
A man walks down the street toward Arthur’s house. He’s young, early twenties. As soon as he reaches the path to the door—he keeps walking.
I exhale and wait as Arthur waits.
A half hour passes.
I can’t feel my hands, they’re so cold, and I’m about to call it when a black sedan pulls up just shy of the house. It lingers there so long, I think it must be a coincidence but something about it makes me stand and move closer for a better look.
The car stops idling, the engine cuts. A tall, white man steps out of the driver’s side looking about as old as Lev. His red hair is curly around his head and he pulls at the bottom of his coat before digging his hand into his pocket, producing his phone. He glances at the screen and then the house, as though checking the address, then moves to the door. There’s no question he’s here for Arthur’s meetup.
“What are you doing here?”
The voice sounds from down the street, sharp and familiar, sending a shockwave through me. At