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Lord’s hands now,” he whispered.
    “My baby . . . Lynn . . . oh, sweet Jesus . . .” Jeannette continued mumbling.
    “I know . . . I know,” Leonard repeated, encouraging himself as much as his wife. “But we’re going to make it through this.”
    They slowly made their way back to the desk, where the receptionist offered them a sympathetic smile. “If you’ll just fill out these insurance forms . . .”
    THIRTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER Pastor Gentry, Arlene, and four ministers from the intercessory prayer team arrived to find Leonard and Jeannette sitting in the waiting area, holding each other.
    The pastor walked over to them, briefly placing his hand atop Leonard’s shoulder. He’d known Leonard for thirty years, dating back to when they were both students at Morris College. Alonzo had been the chaplain for the Baptist Student Union, and Leonard had been the first man he’d led to the saving knowledge of Jesus Christ. The two had remained close friends ever since, and Leonard had been one of the charter members when Alonzo had founded Faith Community Church. Alonzo had also introduced Leonard to his future wife, Jeannette, at a church barbecue, he had been in the hospital for the birth of their daughter, Lynn, and he was known to stop by a few times a year for Jeannette’s delicious German chocolate cake. Jeannette had long since returned the favor by introducing Alonzo to her longtime friend Shanice; the two had been married now ten years.
    “Leonard, this is . . . this is a shock to us all,” Alonzo began, sitting down in the chair next to Leonard. He allowed a few seconds to pass in contemplative silence. “But I want you to know that we are all here for you. Have the doctors said anything further about Lynn’s condition?”
    Leonard shook his head. “We don’t know anything yet. The . . . the impact on her left side . . .” He shook his head as his voice trailed off. He had seen Lynn lying on that stretcher—a sight no parent should
ever
have to see.
    Pastor Gentry closed his eyes and squeezed Leonard’s hand. “Father, we know that You are Jehovah-Rapha, the Lord that healeth us. We pray that You would now touch the hands of the doctors who are in the operating room as we speak. We know that nothing is too hard for You, and we release our faith for a complete healing for Lynn Harper. We ask that You would strengthen our hearts in the midst of this crisis. Above all, though, we pray Your will be done. In Jesus’s name, amen.”

Chapter Five
    D URING HIS PAST FOUR YEARS as a staff writer for the
State
, the bulk of Travis Everett’s articles had gone largely ignored by readers. It was not that he was a bad writer; indeed, his colleagues regarded his literary acumen as above average. Instead, his lackluster reporting skills meant that he was assigned the garden-variety stories that languished in obscurity on the fourth page of the Metro section. In the editor’s all-important opinion (since story placement was ruled on with an iron fist), Travis simply was not a good enough reporter to handle the kind of hard-hitting political and community-interest stories commanding priority in Metro.
    Outwardly, Travis acted as if this stepchild-like treatment didn’t affect him. He claimed to be perfectly satisfied collecting a paycheck for pounding out two eight-hundred-word features a week, no matter where his stories were placed. In truth, though, he longed for the recognition that came from penning an important and interesting story that would dominate not only the front page of Metro, but also the front page of the entire newspaper.
    But where would he find such a story? By his own admission, he was a lazy reporter. He often researched data on the Internet instead of cold-calling sources and physically traveling to various parts of the state to collect eyewitness accounts. His boss, Ryman Wells, had noticed his tendency to cut corners almost immediately, handing Travis the thankless job of covering the