“I screamed. You told me not to.” He rubs at the soot on one hand with his thumb, then stares at it. “The dirt,” he says, his voice strangely peaceful.“What about it?” she asks. “It’s dirty.”

“He won’t stop staring.“What?” I ask.“How much do you weigh?”“Wow. Is that how you talk to every girl you meet? That explains so much.”“I’m about one hundred seventy-five pounds,” he says. “Of muscle.”I stare at him. “Would you like an award?”“Well, well, well,” he says, cocking his head, the barest hint of a smile flickering across his face. “Look who’s the smart-ass now.”“I think you’re rubbing off on me,” I say.”

“I gave my dad a thumbs-up.He stared at me. My mom turned to him in the car, asking him, What? What is it? He kept staring at me. My brown hair was an even bigger shock for him than I'd expected.I smiled and waved at him and mouthed, "Welcome home."He put his hand to his eyes. He knew I was finally cured.”

“If I've got a Dad, and his name is Wormwood Rot, and he's in some heavy metal rock band called Grave Dirt . . . then I'm definitely meeting him!She stares at me awkwardly, and I'm about to ask again—maybe even insist—when she says, "Honey, why do you think he's on the news? Wormwood, I mean . . . your father? Becca, he's . . . dead.”

“He asked me if I ever prayed-- and I lied.Then he asked me if I ever got an answer, or a sign that my prayer was heard-- and I told him the truth."Yeah... me neither."His hands sounded like leather as he slowly rubbed some warmth into his knotted knuckles."So what happens to all of those lost prayers?"I didn't know if I should tell him the truth of what I really believed... or not.I put my hand on his slumping shoulder, smiled and told him the truth of what I believe, "Don't worry...”

“And before he knew what he was doing, he reached out and with a thumb brushed away one teardrop glistening in that mauve crescent beneath her eyes.And then he looked down at his thumb, and rubbed the tear out of existence, right into his skin.”