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shouting and he barely noticed the weather. Instead, his eyes were glued to another fellow about his age wading toward him from the opposite bank. The young man had left his shirt on the shore, revealing an upper torso that was lean and somewhat muscular. His features were dark, his hair casual. As he approached he appeared to be a good three, maybe four inches taller than the first young man.
    Conrad watched as the two met and exchanged words.
    Then the new arrival slowly knelt until he was chest deep in the water. He was obviously preparing to be baptized. Not that it appeared necessary. Thanks to the rain, both were already soaked and dripping. The first young man knelt beside him, put his hand behind the newcomer’s head, and lowered him backwards into the river.
    More lightning strobed across the sky—directly overhead this time, followed by loud, ominous thunder. And, as the young man rose from the water, coughing and wiping his eyes, a most remarkable thing occurred. A bird—Conrad guessed it to be a dove by its brown and white markings—
    appeared in the sky against the black clouds. It descended, flapping its wings, struggling against the wind. Both men saw it and rose silently to watch. Another gust of wind pushed the bird back, but it would not be deterred. It pressed harder, working the currents this way and that, until, at last, with fluttering wings it landed gently upon the second youth’s bare shoulder.
    In surprise, Conrad wiped the rain from his eyes. But when he looked back, the bird was gone, as if it had never been there. More lightning lit the scene, immediately followed by an explosion of thunder, loud and long. At least Conrad thought it was thunder. But in the midst of the pounding roar, there were what almost sounded like . . . words.

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    Phrases, really. Three of them. Booming, reverberating, as if part of the thunder. He was sure it was an illusion, just the way the thunder echoed off the gullies and river. Still, they were so clear, so distinct:
    YOU ARE MY . . . BELOVED SON AND . . . I AM PLEASED . . .
    Conrad glanced back at the crowd. Several of them had heard something as well. Many had stopped and were looking back.
    Conrad turned toward the river. The two men now stood, locked in an embrace. When they finally separated, the new arrival took the other’s shoulders, spoke something, and then without another word turned and headed for the opposite bank, away from the parking lot, away from the crowd. The rain fell harder—blowing and slanting. But through the sheets of water and thick grayness Conrad saw the young man arrive on the opposite shore, stoop to pick up his shirt, and start toward the distant hills.
    v
    Julia stepped into the ICU visitor’s area. It appeared mod-ern and comfortable. The burgundy carpet with its gray, geo-metric designs was cheery without being obnoxious. The abstract paintings of mountains and rolling hills on the wall were soothing. Not far away sat the room’s only occupant, an attractive brunette—long, carefully styled hair, high cheek-bones, full lips, a figure that was slim where fashion dictated it to be slim and voluptuous where it was to be voluptuous.
    She looked to be in her thirties . . . but recognizing the tight, shiny skin and other signs of cosmetic surgery, Julia guessed her closer to mid-forty. At the moment she was immersed in the latest Danielle Steel novel.
    “Roseanne?” Julia asked.
    The woman looked up, then broke into a smile that was the perfect mixture of pleasure and sympathy. As she rose she extended her hand and spoke. “Julia . . .”

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    She sounded Latin, and why not. Julia’s mother was mostly Irish, her first stepmother had been Italian, and the woman after that was Swedish. It was about time her father broaden his tastes to the Southern Hemisphere.
    “I am so sorry,” the woman said as they shook hands.
    Julia gave a tight smile and nodded. She