Chapter 7
By midday, the mist had burned off, replaced by a pale winter sun that offered little warmth. Arthur boarded a crowded city bus, paying his fare with a crumpled twenty-dollar bill he had extracted from the duffel bag. The other passengers avoided making eye contact with him, shrinking away from the faint scent of woodsmoke and old wool that clung to his tattered jacket. Arthur kept the heavy bag wedged tightly between his boots, his hand resting protectively over the zipper.
He rode the bus to its final stop in a quiet, working-class suburb twenty miles from the city center. The neighborhood consisted of modest, single-family homes with small front lawns and peeling paint—a far cry from the affluent neighborhood where he and Sarah had lived before the collapse. He walked down Maple Street, consulting a creased, water-stained piece of paper he had kept folded in his pocket for years, bearing an old address given to him by a sympathetic acquaintance at a downtown shelter.
Number 42 Maple Street was a small, faded blue bungalow with a neatly kept garden bed and a child’s bicycle leaning against the porch railing. Arthur stopped at the foot of the short concrete walkway, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps as he stared at the front door. A sedan was parked in the driveway—an older model with a dented fender.
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For several minutes, Arthur stood paralyzed. What if they had moved away? What if Sarah had remarried, and another man was taking care of Chloe? What if they looked at him with hatred in their eyes and slammed the door in his face? Every rational instinct told him to turn around, to take the duffel bag and disappear into the anonymity of another city.
Yet, the memory of the golden halo and the serene face of the divine figure flashed in his mind. The blessing he had received was not meant to be kept in the dark. He took a deep, steadying breath, unlatched the gate, and walked up the three wooden steps to the front porch. The wood groaned beneath his heavy boots, a sound that seemed to echo through the quiet afternoon. He raised a trembling hand and knocked twice on the wooden door.
