“Another move,” I said just before the 737 hit full throttle, making its climb away from the dreadful Texas heat. “I hope we’re answering our call.”

Three hours later, the uneventful flight relocated my wife, Rosa, and me to Philadelphia. We secured our rental to start the trek to our new home—the Extended Stay hotel.

We passed through what seemed like millions of acres of corn. A never ending “maze of maize” as Rosa confirmed. We paid careful attention to the homes in the area as we drove in. We’d need one soon.

Nothing of any significance stood out until we hit a sharp curve in the road. Driving too fast, I had to slam on the brakes and turn sharply to the left, avoiding the ditches running parallel to the road.

We looked out the windshield. There in front of us rested an old, abandoned building resembling a church from decades ago. I turned off the engine and walked around to open Rosa’s door.

“Do you think it’s an old church of some sort?” I asked as we gazed at the structure.

“Either that or a hotel. It’s way too big to be a house.”

Run.

Something I long to do, but can’t, not the least of the reasons being I am trapped in the backseat of my foster father’s car. So I passed the time by counting the intersections we’ve crossed—eighteen so far—while wondering what the falling snow will look like on Yale’s lawns.

“We’re almost there,” Warren said, needlessly.

We’ll arrive in ten minutes at the current rate of travel and the average delay of downtown traffic at this hour of the morning. The street isn’t visible beyond the windshield, with the onslaught of rain pounding on the glass. Neither Warren nor Janice looks at me in the rearview mirror.

Typical.

As we approach the red light of the nineteenth intersection, Warren should be slowing with the trepidation of a mouse afraid to take cheese after loosing its tail in a trap. I can almost forgive Warren being a reckless driver, though the accident that crippled me from the waist down six months ago wasn’t his fault. I avoid criticizing him for stopping at the intersection six feet over the crosswalk lines. Warren drives like a strung-out old lady in a tank. His Cadillac is built like a tank, and it’s his taste in cars that saved both our lives six months ago, though Janice argued it was the grace of their Lord Jesus Christ that saved us. I preferred a more rational explanation, and, of course, Janice argued that I needed to her accept reality and accept Jesus as my savior. I told her I’d think about it.