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my cars, my home, and, most of all, my love. There was nothing left—no reason to live except the natural human aversion to death. But even that was waning. I could feel it being pushed out by overwhelming pain, despair, and anger. Anger at life. Anger at God. Most of all anger at myself.
    I looked at the pills. What was I waiting for? It was time to get on with it. Time to get this show on the road. I poured the pills into my hand.
    I was about to cross the point of no return, when something happened. Something unlike anything I’d experienced before. Something I believe came from God—or part of His world.
    When I was a child, my mother taught me about God. My mother was a big fan—even as she was dying.
Especially
as she was dying. She would pray, not as some do, repeating a script or chant, or shouting out to an empty universe, but as if He were actually in the same room. There were times, during her prayers, that I opened my eyes and looked around to see who she was talking to.
    At that very moment, a fraction before I crossed
the line,
someone spoke to me. I don’t know if the words were audible, as they seemed to come both from and to my mind, but they came with an authority far greater than my own mind could muster. Just six words. Six words that stopped me cold.
    Life is not yours to take.
    My first reaction was to look around to see who had spoken. When I realized I was truly alone, I dropped the pills on the ground. Then another voice came to me. A softer voice. The voice of my love.
    “Live.”
    For the first time, I fully understood the promise McKale had asked me to make. She knew me. She knew I wouldn’t want to live without her.
    I fell to my knees and began to cry. I don’t remember what happened after that. I don’t remember a thing.

CHAPTER
Twenty-one
    They have not taken my home, just the brick and mortar that once housed it.
    Alan Christoffersen’s diary
    I woke the next morning to the sound of someone opening my door. The house was dark. Even though the sun had risen, the skies were a gray ceiling, typical for this time of year. At least it was no longer raining.
    The door opened before I could get up. A man, well-dressed in a gray wool suit with a white shirt and a crimson tie, walked into my foyer, followed by two older women. They flipped on the lights.
    It was one of the women who saw me first. “Oh, my.”
    The other two turned and looked at me as I stumbled to my feet. There I was, disheveled and unshaven, a bottle of booze on the table and pills scattered on the floor. The women looked at me fearfully.
    “Excuse me,” the man said, sounding more annoyed than sorry, “we were told the home was vacant.”
    “It’s not,” I said.
    “Clearly.” The man reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a business card. He stepped toward me, offering his card. “I’m Gordon McBride, from Pacific Bank. You are aware that the home has been foreclosed on.”
    I didn’t take the card. “You don’t waste much time,
do you?”
    He looked uncomfortable. “You know what they say, ‘Time is money.’”
    “It’s not.”
    “We can come back later,” one of the women said.
    “No, it’s all right,” I said. “Help yourself. I’m still getting my things. The house is a mess.”
    They walked into the living room. I bent down and scooped the pills back into their bottles, then went to my bedroom as they toured the rest of the house. I showered and dressed. Before they left, Mr. McBride found me. “When are you moving out?”
    I felt like a squatter in my own home. Technically I guess I was. “Soon,” I replied. “Real soon.”

    I meant what I said about leaving. I couldn’t wait to get out. Without McKale, this was no longer my home. I felt no more connected to this place than the public library. Now that it had officially been claimed by others, it was time for me to go. The only question was
where
?

CHAPTER
Twenty-two
    I believe that in spite of the chains we bind ourselves