“Who is doubting their faith?” Rev. Michael said. 

The ICU room was noisy now, beeping, buzzing, and whoosh-wheezing more than Matt had ever known one of these hospital cavities to tantrum. Crumpled on the bed like a deflated pool toy, a torn-open garbage bag, lay the old man, Ray Whitehead, known to Matt, and everyone, as “Mr. Ray.” The dying man gasped into an enormous oxygen mask which covered most of his face. Three IVs ran into his withered arms, all covered in bloody bandages. The old man’s skin, defeated by decades-long battles with arthritis, diabetes, and other diseases, was so thin that a stick from the needle inevitably made a mess. Gathered around Mr. Ray were the River Church’s Young Life hospital volunteers, teenagers overseen by the youth minister, Rev. Dell Michael. 

Sardonically, the hospital staff referred to the Young Life crew as the “Prayer Team,” though they allowed them to gather in the rooms of the dying River Church flock. The River Church congregation was large enough to sway everything in Smith county, including the hospital. The mayor belonged to the flock. The city council. The school board. And so on. 

Now, Mr. Ray was undeniably slipping, losing his battle with pneumonia. On both his right and left, Prayer Team teenagers laid fingertips and palms upon his rattling and rasping chest, his cool, papery forehead, and even his slitted, semi-conscious eyes. On the monitors, the numbers were terrible: oxygen, heartbeat, blood pressure. These monitors beeped and flashed, signaling a yellow “low alert” alarm, which summoned a nurse not much older than Matt and the Prayer Team. The young nurse, pregnant, had to squeeze between two teenagers, the Shelton twins, inseparable, reedy girls, basketball stars at the high school. 

“Who is doubting their faith,” Rev. Michael said again. 

The children shot one another frightened glances. Someone needed to concentrate on their love of Christ. Behind the Prayer Team, in the corner of the room, Ray Whitehead’s wife, Robin, sobbed and prayed in a steady, breathless stream. Matt, positioned on the far side of Mr. Ray’s bed,watched the hunched woman grip her palms together so tightly that her fingers turned whiter than Mr. Ray’s sheets. Whiter than the clouded carpet of the Hereafter, as Matt dimly imagined it. 

Matt could never conceptualize heaven. Not visually. Never would he admit this to Rev. Michael, or any of the other Elders of the River Church. Nor his fellow Young Life volunteers. His concept of heaven he considered childish: a cloud city in the sky with golden gates and winged angels bearing harps. 

In truth, Matt had joined the River Church for a girl. 

When he started dating Lana Shelton, one of the twins now standing across from him, his junior year, she insisted he come to Young Life meetings with her. If he wanted to be her boyfriend, anyway. So he had. And, he still did, though they’d broken up over this last summer. Now, in only eighteen months, most of Matt’s friends were Young Life members, including Lana, who he still loved deeply, even if she was dating Rev. Michael’s son, Andy. 

Some whispered that Lana and the Rev. Michael himself had been spotted together at steakhouses in neighboring counties. Gossip is unsuppressable (true), while scandal is overlooked (lies).

The pregnant nurse injected something into one of the IVs from a large, plastic syringe. The numbers did not change, but she reached up on tiptoe and pressed a button, silencing the alarm. However, a shrill beeping continued. “I need to change his drip,” she muttered, and hand lightly on her belly, she pushed her way from the room. 

Matt’s hand rested on Mr. Ray’s heaving ribcage, fingertips inches from Lana’s. His thoughts drifted to a muddy road by Cane Creek, his Honda Civic pulled into a nook, a deep recess in the willow trees, he and Lana groping one another, the car growing hot, her unbuttoning a yellow blouse, the first time he’d seen breasts (in person), after minutes of fumbling at the hooked clasp on her bra. This was when she’d told him he must join Young Life. He’d mumbled acquiescence–no actual words–but he’d have agreed to anything at that moment. Lion-taming, human cannonball.

Ubiquitous guilt. 

Was the Devil seeded in Matt’s mind, flickering his thoughts toward sin even now, even when Mr. Ray’s life was at stake? 

Matt wondered this often. Sometimes he’d imagine his teachers, or Mrs. Carver, the River Church nursery school teacher (at least fifty), or even his sister–all nude and sprawled before him, luring and tempting him to damnation. These images came to him during class, during Sunday sermons, and around the dinner table. Rev. Michael said the Devil worked his mischief every hour of every day. He’d insisted the boys all sign a contract to never masturbate. After joining Young Life.

On their second date, Matt now saved, he’d taken Lana to the county fair. They spent the evening holding hands, exchanging an occasional closed-mouth kiss. Matt drove home with a pain in his abdomen and testicles so severe that an hour later he’d asked his father to drive him to the emergency room. Mercifully, his father didn’t ask questions, but halted his son in the parking lot. Unable to meet his son’s eye, he cleared his throat, said, “I can’t tell you what to do… but I know what I’d do when I was your age.” Foreseeing the reaction of the nurses, doctors, the possibility of rumor, Matt asked that his father restart the car. They drove home in silence. Matt took Tylenol, fell asleep, had a wet dream, and prayed tearfully over his stained boxer shorts long enough to be significantly tardy to first block.

Mr. Ray’s numbers dipped again. A red “high alert” klaxon flashed and sounded. 

“Who is doubting their faith,” said Rev. Michael. His eyes fell on Matt as if he knew the boy’s mind had drifted to Lana. And it had drifted to a half dozen girls and women, momentarily–Mrs. Whitehead, the pregnant nurse. In fighting the Devil, Matt tried to picture Mr. Ray’s shriveled penis, his Young Life friends playing two-hand-touch football, and eventually, his ultimate go-to, his mother, an image unfailing in banishing the Evil One. But at what cost? 

Matt held Rev. Michael’s gaze, thought, “You, too, are a sinner,” though he immediately regretted it. He slid his hand toward Mr. Ray’s left breast, over the heart, and offered his soul in exchange for this good and kind man’s life-sixteen more years on Earth for the sixteen Matt had wasted. 

The numbers didn’t change. The pregnant nurse returned with a doctor. The doctor told Mr. Ray’s wife that they were nearing a more desperate stratagem, an injection of Fentanyl, which would either jump-start Mr. Ray’s system or shut him down. Mrs.Whitehead wept so hard that her answer was indecipherable, and the Reverend spoke up in her stead, said it wasn’t yet time, that God would see to Mr. Ray, and it was out of their hands. The doctor belonged to the congregation, so he left without a word. Now Mr. Ray began to mutter from under the thick plastic of his oxygen mask. The Prayer Team lifted their hands away in unison, shocked. Like Matt, they’d assumed he was unconscious. But, under the mask, his words were muffled, only a thin squeak. Without permission, Rev. Michael lifted the mask from the panting man’s lower face, lowering an ear to his lips. The Reverend turned to Mr. Ray’s wife. “He wants you.” 

Several children began to cry, or dab at their eyes with their sleeves. It was evident that Mr. Ray had heard the doctor and understood. He was aware that a final gamble was approaching. 

When the Reverend, on behalf of the Lord–and his wife–allowed it. 

The Prayer Team parted to grant Mrs. Whitehead a place at her husband’s side. The Reverend drew back so they could swap places and she might hear his feeble words. She kissed him. Matt saw thick, syrupy tears in Lana’s eyes, clear mucus leaking from her nostrils. Then, Mrs. Whitehead, without lifting her face but a few inches from her husband, said, “Will you sing to him? He wants you to sing.” Mr. Ray’s eyes grew wet. Matt had joined the Prayer Team for several hospital visits and realized he’d never seen the dying person cry. 

Also, where were Mr. Ray’s sons? Usually, the room was overcrowded with family, though sometimes they were alone, save for the Prayer team, which Matt found unbearable, a cruelty that led his thoughts toward Doubt, another form of the Devil, a dragon he fought with St. George’s sword. Or tried to. Wanted to. 

In a sturdy–if nasal–voice, Rev. Michael began singing Hymn Ninety-Nine, and the Prayer Team joined in a tremulous chorus, wet and off-key. The nurse reentered the room, frowning, and replaced the oxygen mask on Mr. Ray, but not before Matt saw the old man flinching. The singing, Matt suspected, was more for Mrs. Whitehead’s desire, not her husband’s. Whatever he’d muttered, well, who knows? Likely as not it’d just been “goodbye” or “love you.” Or simply nonsense. So, Matt didn’t join in the song; he didn’t care for hymns, wasn’t confident of the words. Instead, he watched the dying man. Matt didn’t know Mr. Ray well, only what everyone spoke behind his back, that he wasn’t among the “Every Friday Flock”–that is, he never volunteered. Matt did know that Mr. Ray had worked at the tractor supply store most his life and retired a few years ago. He chewed tobacco during service. Everyone knew that he drank beer. 

Low but assured, Matt began singing. A solo in the honor choir, singing was Matt’s release. Before dating Lana and joining the River Church, he’d played in a very secular garage band. 

Matt sang, “Hey, Good Lookin’,” allowing his voice to twang playfully, like bouncing on a trampoline. He overrode the Prayer Team one by one, and they stared, shocked. 

All except Rev. Michael. Soon, it became a disharmonious competition between Matt and the Reverend.

 The dying man lifted a hand, clenching at the air, and Matt realized immediately what he wanted. He took the old man’s hand and felt Mr. Ray squeeze. The dying man’s eyes opened, partly, and goddamned if he didn’t wink at Matt. 

Rev. Michael stopped singing. “Matt, you need to–” 

“–got a hot rod Ford and a two dollar bill. And I know a place right over the hill. There’s soda pop, and the dancing’s free. So if you wanna have fun, come’a’long with me.” As Matt sang, he grinned, and as he grinned, he bared his teeth–just slightly–at Rev. Michael.

The room fell silent, save for the beeping. Mr. Ray continued grasping Matt’s hand, and it felt like he was trying to give little squeezes in time with Matt’s singing.

The doctor stood in the doorway, large plastic syringe in hand, looking puzzled. 

Matt locked eyes with the Reverend, whose face had turned crimson. “Michael–how many people are in heaven?” 

“Matt, why don’t we go outside,” Rev. Michael whispered. 

“Yeah. Why don’t we?” Matt placed a thumb gently on Mr. Ray’s forehead. “You hold on, sir.” 

“Matt,” Lana hissed. 

“You come, too.” Matt said, and he left Mr. Ray’s side and entered the hall. He felt bodies following, turned, and saw the Reverend, Lana, and Lana’s sister, Rosemary, all clutched shoulder to shoulder, facing him. 

“What are you doing in there,” Lana said.

Before Matt could reply, the Reverend said, “Matt, you’re upset. You should go home.” 

“I asked you: ‘How many people are in heaven, Michael?’ ” 

“My name is Dell, Matt. Reverend Dell Michael–” 

“–not important. Answer the question.”

Rev. Michael’s eyes grew unfocused for a moment as he thought. “Millions, I guess–maybe more. Probably more. The souls of the saved, Matt. You’ve been taught this in service. Why don’t we discuss this a more appropriate time?” 

“Would you want to live forever?”

Lana, clearly furious, crossed her arms. “Matt, you’re being inappropriate.” 

“Would you? What do you think it would be like to live forever?” 

The Reverend smiled. “If you’re suggesting–” he gestured around the hall “–here, on Earth, I imagine it wouldn’t be particularly pleasant. Now, where are we going with this, Matt? Are you having a crisis of–” 

“And isn’t that the whole idea of heaven? That we live forever up in the goddamn clouds somewhere? With millions of other people?”

Lana and Rosemary gasped. Hospital staff, annoyed, were pushing around them. A security guard was watching from a distance and seemed to be weighing his options. Another alarm went off from Mr. Ray’s room, and Matt heard Mrs. Whitehead begin to sob anew. But Rev. Michael only grinned. “Matt, do you think these are new questions you’re asking?”

“What are we supposed to be doing up there in heaven? Forever? Playing Monopoly? What could we possibly do for all eternity that wouldn’t just turn into torture? And you just feel all warm and squishy all the time, like some kind of magic, eternal blow–”

“Matt, these are questions that theologians–you know what a theologian is, right?–have debated for centuries. You need to look up the word ‘sophomoric.’ “And with that, the Reverend grinned, and so did Lana and Rosemary, on cue. 

After a pause, Lana added: “You’re acting like a child, Matt.” 

“It’s okay, girls. He’s tired. And upset. We should–” 

“This is about you. We all realize that,” Matt said. “This is a… pageant that you put on. The hospital just lets us get away with it. Same thing with your church. It’s got nothing to do with your Bible or Jesus or any of–” 

” ‘My Bible,’ Matt?” 

And Matt wasn’t angry anymore. He had been when he started singing that Hank Williams song, but now he was just relieved. The doctor came out of the hospital room looking distressed, but Matt didn’t care what had happened in that room. He was sixteen years old. This wasn’t his problem. Lana wasn’t his problem. Not anymore. He turned and walked away, tossed his visitor’s badge down on the nurse’s desk, and let himself out through the security door. On the elevator down to the first floor, he searched his phone to see if he still had any of the guys from his old band’s numbers. 

When the cool, morning air brushed his face as he loped through the parking lot, he felt refreshed and renewed, and that creeping sensation of sin, which was not the Devil, of course, but just being a normal fucking person.