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I’m supposed to be part of whatever it is. But I think that I could stop after that.”
    Hearing himself say it made the idea of retreat more tangible. Since the visits had begun, Luke was overwhelmed by the responsibility. He was a believer, not a holy man. Why had he been chosen instead of Billy Graham, Dr Martin Luther King or Bishop Fulton J. Sheen? He had shrunk back from the news media completely, wouldn’t respond to the shouted questions that waited outside the studio every day. Now he began to see this withdrawal as a tactical error because it shrouded him in mystery and it only intensified the reporters’ interest
    But now he knew it would be over when he decided, and he could endure it until then. At breakfast the next day he decided something else. “Honey, I’m gonna start talking about how I feel, on the air today. I didn’t want you to be surprised, so I’m telling you now. You’re my wife.” She listened for the next hour as he described the turmoil and self-doubt consuming him. Now there were no unknowns between them. She saw his struggle as much in his hands as in the words. The barely discernible tremble had started a few weeks ago. Now the physical manifestation was made more noticeable by what he said. She was really worried about him for the first time.
    When he was finished, she waited for a moment, then began to play back to him what he had been saying. He could barely hear her; she was so quiet and calm. “And the last thing I’ll say is that, yes, you’ve gotta get out as soon as this thing you’re sensing actually happens.”
    The limousine driver gunned the engine to clear the crowd blocking the studio gate. They scattered, looking more like an angry picket line then believers at a vigil. Some looked in at Luke, who pretended to read the newspaper in the back seat, and he sensed the hostility. He was guilty of not granting their particular miracle. Jake took all of this without noticeable effect. “Howya doin? Hi! Good ta see ya. Thanks for comin’ by.”
    Luke wished he could be a not-give-a-shit guy, like his producer. He got a glimpse of what it must be like when he would sip down a couple of drinks, getting fairly blasted from this rare consumption of booze. He would think,’so this is how it feels to not give a rat’s ass.’ He envied those blessed with nonchalance. Since he was a kid, he needed to have everything planned out in advance. What he would wear. Where he would go and how to get there. What might go wrong and how to get around it. What he would say. His existence was a continuous rehearsal, mostly for things that never happened.
    The newsman with the incredibly deep voice was wrapping up the 9:55 report and Luke was ready to go. “And that’s News. Next report at eleven. Bulletins at once. Now Luke Trimble and Voices in The Night on KOGO, San Diego and the ABC Radio Network.”
    As Larry’s mike light blinked off, he rose and swished out of the announce booth like Loretta Young descending a staircase. The deep voice of authority would be gone until the next newscast, replaced by a mid-range chatter. Larry’s exit invariably caused Jake to laugh-snort into Luke’s headset.
    “Luke Trimble, Voices in the Night coming to you from sunny San Diego. Tonight I’d like to talk about me, and what’s been happening. Because I’m not so sunny. Imagine if you were in my place. Think what that would be like. How your life would be turned upside down. How stressed out you’d be and how unsure whether you were up to the job. Imagine how the attention and media coverage would affect your family, your home. That you couldn’t go out to a movie or for a pizza. Consider how it would feel to be in the middle of a miracle and not know why you were there.
    “Sometimes, I think I can’t come in here one more time. But I know I have to, because you and he need me to. I’m tired and I’m sick to my stomach every minute I’m awake. Then I think I’m being a big baby and to