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“Mm-hmm. That night we had a campfire, and I remember Dad talking about the river, and how alone, we would just get tossed by the current, but together, we could fight it.”
“I was only worried about having to sleep in the same tent as Iris.”
Fraser laughed. “Yeah, well, Dad told me that we were never meant to be self-sufficient. That we were supposed to be dependent. On each other. And most importantly, on God.”
“Oh, wait, this is the God-is-my-teammate talk, right?”
Fraser smiled. “You remember that?”
“I was face down in an ER, the doctor sewing up my backside after I got shot, trapped by you and your big brother wisdom, so yeah, I remember.”
“Good. Maybe you missed the part, though, where the biggest way we depend on God, our team leader, is to pray.”
“I’ve been praying. Or trying to. It’s hard when you can’t breathe.”
“I’m sure you have.” His mouth tightened. “Pray some more.” Then he made a fist and pressed it against Ned’s chest “You gotta keep praying until this knot goes away.”
Ned wasn’t sure that was possible.
Fraser again looked at the stars. “I heard once that peace isn’t the absence of worry or fear; it’s the presence of the one who is bigger than that.”
Then he glanced again at Ned, gave a nod, and headed back inside.
Ned stood there, wordless.
Then he looked back at the heavens. Took a breath.
And prayed some more.
* * *
“Getyour head in the game, Hudson!”
Hudson ignored the shout from Head Coach Clay, pacing the sidelines as he picked up the football egg-rolling across the turf, then tossed to it to Coach Max, his wide-receiver coach. Coach Max caught it, rolling it between his hands, then motioned for Hudson to come over.
“’Sup, Coach?” He’d barely worked up a sweat today, the temps in the mid-forties, the sky a slate gray. Reminded him a little of playing in Montana, the scent of a storm in the air despite the high blue sky. He didn’t mind a little snow on the field, especially back then, with his parents and Harry in the stands. And playing Griz football had opened up doors beyond the life of a hired cowboy, something his mother desperately wanted for both her sons.
“Are you going to play like that in the game tomorrow?”
He liked Coach Max. The guy might be Austrian, but he knew football, having played in the US for college, then coached in the ELF for the last seven years. He’d sent two of his ELF players into the NFL just last year.
Hudson hoped to be the third.
“Sorry, Coach.”
“I’ve got the same question for you, Bly. You’re not here. That’s the third pass you’ve missed today, passes that are easily catchable.”
Max wore a purple Vienna Vikings baseball cap, a pair of Ray-Bans, and a black jacket with the Vikings emblem on the breast. He tucked the football under his arm, put a hand on Hud’s shoulder. “Your head okay?”
Oh. The last thing he wanted was for Max to start to think that his concussions were catching up with him, causing him brain fog, even confusion in the backfield.
“I’m good, Coach. I’ll do better—”
“I know. You’re a great clutch player, and we’ll need you in the game against the Milano Seamen. But you looked tired out there, and again, like your mind is somewhere else.”
His mindwassomewhere else, frankly. Many somewhere elses. Like the Charles Bridge in Prague in the rain, and in his hotel room, staunching the bleeding of a stranger, with Iris Marshall as they rode the train in Paris to Napoleon’s grave, and then, in slow-mo, the moments that led up to the attack by her brothers.
Her brothers.
