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ten years. As always he was wearing earphones, holding a boom with a shotgun mike at the end, and doing his best to stay out of Ned’s picture. Together the two half-walked, half-slid down the sandy knoll to join the outside fringes of the crowd—a crowd that listened to a half-naked young man whose skin was red from the sun and whose sandy blond dreadlocks fell to the tops of his shoulders. He stood in a waist-deep eddy of the river, shouting at them:
    “You snakes! You vipers! Like frightened reptiles you slither from the desert’s wildfire, hoping this river can save you. Do you honestly think there’s something magical about this water, or about any water, that can save your souls? In your wildest dreams do you really believe that all you need to do is be baptized?”
    Some of the crowd murmured in resentment. Most simply listened. Conrad carefully surveyed them. He estimated there to be between five and six hundred. Five to six hundred people standing on the bank of a river in the middle of nowhere, baking in the sun, listening to someone browbeat them. Now he at least understood why he was out here covering the story—wherever “here” was. But why were these people here?
    As best as he could tell, they came from every background—the rich in their shorts and polo shirts, the poor in jeans and cutoffs, teens in halter tops and swimsuits. He noticed a large number of Hispanics, and by their dress and leathered faces he guessed many of them to be migrant workers. He guessed something else as well. He had not returned to the seventies. There were no painted VW vans, no flower children. Just contemporary people with contemporary cars, soccer mom vans, and the occasional RV.
    In the distance he heard thunder rumble.
    “You say, ‘I’m religious, I believe in God, I’ll be saved from the coming wrath.’ Who are you kidding?” the young man hththt 5/14/01 11:34 AM Page 29
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    shouted. “God can raise up religious people from these very stones! And saying you believe in God isn’t going to save you!
    It’s what you do , not what you say! Standing in a garage screaming, ‘I’m a BMW!’ does not make you a BMW! You’ve got to prove it! You’ve got to bear the fruit!”
    Someone in the crowd started to shout, but he cut him off.
    “Save me your doctrines, your pious theologies. Walk the walk! Bear the fruit! Do not be like our esteemed leaders.
    Those who go to religious services Sunday, then continue their adulterous affairs throughout the week. Turn! Change!
    Do an about-face, or you’ll be good for nothing but firewood!”
    Thunder again rumbled in the background. Conrad glanced up. The storm was quickly approaching. He still wasn’t sure where he was, though the desolate hills, the mountains, and the smell of sage made it clear he was out West. Central California, he guessed, maybe Eastern Washington.
    The people had heard the thunder as well. Some were stooping down, gathering their things. Others had already started toward the makeshift parking lot—a flat area just off a single-lane ribbon of blacktop that snaked its way into the hills. For every intent and purpose, it appeared that Conrad was back in his own world. But he knew better. He remembered the accident. Vividly. He still suspected that his own world consisted of doctors, drugs, and hospitals. He suspected it. But for whatever reason, he was no longer experiencing it.
    “Who exactly do you claim to be?” an angry man shouted from the crowd. Conrad turned to Ned, who was already zooming in for a close-up as Horton repositioned his mike.
    The speaker was a distinguished gentleman with gray hair and a neatly trimmed beard. “Where do you come from? What is your training?”
    “I am nothing!” cried the young man. “Just a voice shouting in the middle of nowhere!”
    “Are you the Messiah?” a young mother with a baby called. “The one we’ve been waiting for?”

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    “No! I’m not even worthy to