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his finger on it. His spirit registered it only as something nameless.
    Where had that come from?
    Since Daniel Thomas Caldwell was so formal-sounding, and there was nothing about him to suggest he be called Danny for short, his grandmother had given him the moniker of Souljah Boy, which was a perfect fit, and everyone he knew called him that.
    His grandmother had declared that he was an old soul since the day he was born. She had flipped the Bible open in front of his face hours after he was born, and she told everyone who’d listen that that child had focused his eyes on the word and reached out to touch the Bible like he knew what it was for real.
    From that moment on she had secretly dedicated him to Christ and given him the name Souljah Boy. It fit him like a glove. No one knew for sure if the story was true about Souljah Boy, but he was always walking around with the Bible.
    His knowledge of scripture was astounding. And for sure he was Harlem’s ghetto scribe.
    Consequently, the only place you ever saw the name Daniel Thomas Caldwell was on a legal document.
    Dre hit the ticket against his leg. He looked tired. Souljah Boy sat on the foot of the bed. Dre didn’t bother to move his feet.
    â€œSo, what’s up, Dre?”
    Dre gave Souljah Boy a long look. “I don’t know, man. Somebody flipped the script upside down on me. Threw shade. You know what I’m saying?”
    Souljah Boy nodded. “What about L.A.?” He indicated the ticket Dre held in his hand.
    Dre tossed his head from side to side on the pillow. “I can’t leave my moms now, man. Maybe once things are straight.” Dre held up the ticket. He stared at it as though an illumination to solve all his problems would appear.
    Souljah Boy reached into his pocket and extracted a pocket-size Bible. He flipped to a page and started reading: “ ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death . . .’ ” Souljah Boy stopped to give Dre a close look.
    Dre leaped off the bed. He went over to the window. “Knock it off, Souljah.”
    â€œ ‘I shall fear no evil . . .’ ”
    â€œI said knock it off, yo.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause this ain’t the valley of death. It’s Harlem.”
    Souljah Boy snapped the Bible closed. He stared intently at Dre. “Randi’s dead.”
    â€œAnd I’m alive. I’m an image maker, Souljah Boy.”
    â€œAll men are made in the image of God,” Souljah Boy said.
    Dre ignored him. He grabbed his camera. The flash exploded in Souljah Boy’s face. Light surrounded his head like a halo. Dre clicked off a rapid succession of deft shots.
    He had difficulty breathing as he turned and aimed the camera at the window. He took a shot of the full moon, hovering like a suspended ball in the sky. “The ultimate shot of all time. That will be me, Souljah. Images come from the living, man.”
    â€œEvil lives among the living, and legends are made bigger once they’re dead,” Souljah Boy said.
    He rose, picked up the sponge basketball off the floor, and swished a shot into the hoop in the corner of the room. The ball dropped through the hoop in slow motion, in a perfect arc. Souljah Boy glanced at a smiling picture of Randi Burlingame up on Dre’s wall.
    â€œMen create images, Dre. Some they can’t live with. Out of men’s hearts sprouts evil. But only God can create a man. Only God can truly right a wrong. Remember that.”
    Souljah Boy walked out of the room, clutching his Bible. He closed the door softly behind him as Dre stared at the empty spot he had left behind.

7
    A nita stood in the middle of her cramped apartment, with yards of colorful fabric draped across her arms. She twined the material across the mannequin that stood before her. It was busy work, and right now she needed to be busy. It had already started, just as she had known it would.
    Sometimes her second sight