Then he looked away again and I swear I did see tears roll down his cheeks. I could see his eyes following the birds as they flew into the light. His hand was on the counter, and I put mine on his. He didn’t flinch or pull it away. His fingers curled around mine. I had another burst of memory flood through me, as if touching him had released even more things that had been stored away. I stammered, “I was taught, when I was a kid, that the Messiah was coming. I loved that story. It made me feel safe. They said that when he comes, he will reveal all things to us. Do you know that story? Do you believe it? Do you know who he is?” Again, he was quiet, as if he was deciding whether to speak. Then he turned back to me with his cheeks wet. He brought his other hand onto the counter and held mine in both of his, but gently, as if he was wanting to be sure not to hurt me. Again, he lifted his eyes to mine and his face broke into the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen. And he said, “I am he, the one who is speaking to you.” He said it as if it had been a burden he had been carrying that he had finally allowed to drop. He said it as if he really wanted me to believe him. He said it as if it was a gift to me. And I did believe him. I do believe him. The moment was broken by a tapping on the window. Ten or twenty shaggy, dusty-looking hikers all with their faces pushed up against the glass. I turned towards the gun safe again. He kept hold of my hand and simply said, “It’s okay. They’re my friends. They slept in, as always. They’ve just caught up. It’s okay.” They filed in and I made them all coffee and toasted sandwiches. They called him Jesus. He wouldn’t eat. Said he already had, but I wasn’t sure what he meant. They all looked at me as if I was some sort of threat. They looked at me as if I was a feral loser from the scrub. Which I was. Or had been until minutes ago. Maybe they’d seen him holding my hand. I don’t know. I was putting them on edge, even while I was feeding them. But I’m used to people looking at me as if I’m rubbish. What I wasn’t used to was 63
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