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his desk and turn back the page he had been writing on. He looks over his shoulder to make sure I’m not there. He takes a pen from a coffee mug on his desk and writes
Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?
and covers the page. Now he takes off his glasses and puts them in the mug along with the pen.
    I wait till he returns before entering the body; perhaps he can sense a corpse when he sees one. I watch him watching me, him standing, me seemingly asleep. It’s a peaceful scene. I almost hate to ruin it, but I slip in and open my eyes and say, “My God, My God, why hast thou forsaken me?” He blinks, his mouth falls open. I tell him, “Also, you left your glasses in the coffee mug.”
    I watch him reassemble his composure. He does it from the inside out; he’s making new space for something that doesn’t fit anything he’s ever known. I watch as shock and fear and doubt assert themselves and dissolve, replaced by a widening of the eyes and an acceptance of what I’ve told him. Wonder, that’s what I see.
    “To bring someone back from the dead is the province of Christ alone. You have brought me a true miracle.”
    “I’m not sure I’m back from the dead. I can leave this body, or I can re-enter and make it seem to work. Is that life?”
    “It is certainly something new and different, but I’m sure it has a purpose.” He sits next to me again and folds his hands together. “Will you pray with me?”
    “May I confess first?”
    “Yes, of course.”
    I tell him I’ve never done this before and don’t know the protocol. He tells me, “Say what’s on your mind. Say what’s in your heart. Unburden yourself, for you are already forgiven.”
    The words pour out. I am not in charge of this. I might run the body, but I’m not running the mouth; it’s on its own. I hear myself say, “My sins of commission are trivial. I have told many untruths. My sins of omission are another matter. Selfishness and sloth. An unwillingness to face conflict. To make commitments. I have failed my daughter. I have medicated pain until I numbed myself to life. I have squandered the gift of living and been useful to no one.” I have always known these things, but never articulated them, not even to myself. It’s a shabby confession: Charlie Miner, junkie loser. Make that dead junkie loser.
    Father Tomas regards me contemplatively; I am his personal miracle. We sit in silence. Now he takes my hand and slides off the bench to a kneeling position, pulling me along with him. We kneel in silence; perhaps I’m supposed to be praying. My eyes are closed. I hear Father Tomas say, “Father, forgive us our sins. May we find peace and purpose in your love. Amen.” He gives a slight, affirmative shake to my hand and we stand.
    I thank him and turn to leave. I don’t know what just happened but I feel something new, a sprig of optimism. Perhaps this is what they call hope. As I walk toward the church doors, I notice a hint of blue and yellow on the floor. I turn and look up at the stained glass.
    I walk out into the sunlight. I will the body to move. I will the heart to pump the blood to feed the cells to imitate life.

    ¤ ¤ ¤

    Back in the Z, I crank the ignition and buckle up. I check my cell: four calls and three text messages, all from Tanya. I call Jimmy and leave another message. It’s just past three and now I’m worried. Jimmy always calls back.
    Traffic’s bad. I take Olympic most of the way. My cell rings and I answer it. Tanya screams at me, “Charlie, everything I have is on the line here. You can’t just ignore me.”
    “I’m heading over there right now,” I tell her. I turn south on Centinela.
    “Over where? I’ll meet you there, where is it?” Give me a demanding female voice and my mind switches off. I tell her I have to do this alone or it won’t happen, and that I’ll call her the second I have it. The reports are in Jimmy’s bathroom, and there’s nothing I can do until Jimmy lets me in.

9
    Jimmy’s Hummer is