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them work in town; I think a few commute to Spokane. They’re just average, hard-working people.”
    “But they’re a cult?”
    I ran down the list—an old, wrinkled list ingrained in my mind through months of public and private discussion, debate, accusation, counteraccusation, and vitriol. It was a list peeled off a can of worms, and I would have loved to forget it. “The Apostolic Brethren deny the deity of Christ, don’t know diddly-squat about atonement or salvation, and think they’re all going to be christs someday because Jesus was just one of many ‘christs’ one of many ‘sons’ of God. They’re into pop psychology—you know, deep meanings behind bodily excretions and private body parts and whether or not your mother breast-fed you. They consider the whole church one big extended family, so they move the kids around from family to family wherever Armond wants them to go. Armond usually requires the young women to live with him for a while so he can teach them about sex—whatever his view of it is, anyway. They, uh, they do things.” I wanted to cut this short. “That’s about the gist of it.”
    Kyle’s grip on the steering wheel was so tight I thought he’d bend it. “And he’s on the ministerial?”
    “You have eyes.”
    “Why isn’t anything done about it?”
    “Something was done about it.”
    “But he’s still there!”
    “End of story.”
    “But he’s a heretic! He’s a pervert!”
    “Nobody’s asking you.”
    He yelled at me. “What?”
    I tried to explain, even though I was pretty sure it wouldn’t do much good. “Kyle, in the long, drawn-out scope of things, it’s really none of your business what the Apostolic Brethren do and believe. You can preach the truth just as God called you to do, but what Armond and his bunch choose to believe is up to them and you’re better off just leaving them alone. If you don’t believe me, just try to break up their little church. See how far you get. After you fall flat on your face, you can thank God you live in a country where heretics like Armond Harrison can still roam free, because his freedom is your freedom.”
    Kyle shook his head. “I can’t . . . I can’t be on this ministerial!”
    “Oh, you’ll break their hearts.”
    “Travis, you’re talking like you’re in agreement with all this!”
    I did not need or desire this conversation. I was looking at the door handle, seriously thinking of bailing out of the car. “Not in agreement. Just wiser, that’s all. We did talk about that before we went in, remember?”
    “So you just sit and let people like that on the ministerial? You just sit and let me do all the fighting, all by myself? You let me walk right into that wolf pack and don’t lift a finger to defend the truth, to help me out?”
    “I warned you.”
    He sighed a deep sigh, shook his head, and reiterated, “Something’s happened to you, Travis. I mean, the things I used to hear about you, the great spiritual warrior you used to be. You need to come back to the Lord, Travis. You need to get right with God.”
    I grabbed the door handle and just about tore it off. “See you around.”
    “What are you doing?”
    I flung the door open and practically leaped out. “The ride’s over.” Kyle leaned over, calling to me. “Travis, I’m just trying to help you. You’re heading down the wrong road.”
    I was already walking. “I know my way home, Kyle!”
    “You know what I mean!”
    I stopped and turned. “Yes, I know what you mean. I know the language, Kyle. I was speaking it before you were born. I used to lay that trip on people! But you’re the man of God now, Pastor Sherman. Fight the good fight any way you want. The cause is all yours. Just stay out of my face!”
    I turned and kept walking and did not look back, even as I heard him close the door I’d left open and drive off.
    I SUPPOSE WE COULD HAVE AVOIDED our little spat if Kyle had been here two years ago, the first time Everett Fudd came to