The sun no longer shines in the windows of St. Patrick’s, it is now quite dim inside. Tom doesn’t notice.
It had been the best of times. What followed was the worst of times.
Amy did not give up. In fact she steadily became more determined. I was now not just a fugitive from belief, I was a targeted fugitive. First Amy just tipped off missionaries, then she offered a reward, and in the final months before the opening of the portals, I became a cause célèbre—Amy got on Oprah to talk about me and her plight. She became the poster child for the missionary movement—they were now out to bring her benighted husband, me, back to her so that the whole family could go through the portals.
God, it was touching! And God, it made my life a living hell!
Worse, we had talked together for months about ways to survive—she knew all the ins and outs of my thinking. I had to abandon my car and avoid human contact completely. I had to go places I had never planned on going. I had to do things I’d never thought of doing. I did a good job of changing style. But most important, I just got flat-ass lucky … if you can call it that.
For months I lived like one of those wild-eyed hermits the Trappists had talked about. I drunk-walked the Appalachians—dodging helicopters and foot patrols, stealing food to live and newspapers to maintain my sanity. Well, as much of it as I could. I could trust no one and talk to no one. The experience changed me. I lost a lot of weight. I became lean, hard, self-sufficient … and crazy. Yes, crazy. I know it.
Amy would not have liked me. I didn’t like me.
Tom’s head drops in thought for some time. Then he suddenly looks up.
Getting late. I should head home.
He hurries out to his bike.