Free A Step of Faith by Richard Paul Evans

over three sliding-glass windows. I walked up to the middle window and rang a bell for service. A brunette woman in her mid-thirties slid open the window.
    “What can I get you?”
    I took a step forward. “I’ll have a Pepsi and your Arnold Burger.” I looked back up at the sign. “What’s fried okra?”
    “It’s just okra. Fried.”
    I smiled at her description. “What’s okra?”
    She looked at me in disbelief. “It’s a vegetable. Some people call it gumbo.”
    “Like shrimp gumbo?”
    “Shrimp gumbo has okra in it,” she said. “It’s good. You’ve really never had fried okra?”
    “It’s new to me.”
    “You’re not from around here, are you?”
    “I’m from the northwest.”
    “That explains things. What brings you to Arnold?”
    “I’m just passing through. I’m walking across America.”
    Her eyes widened. “Shut the door! What city did you start in?”
    “Seattle.”
    “Seattle! Wow. That is so cool. Tell you what, that Pepsi’s on me. Are you gonna try the okra?”
    “Of course,” I said.
    “Great. I’ll put your order in.” She walked away from the window and I heard her calling out my order to someone in back. A moment later she returned with my drink.
    “Here’s your Pepsi.”
    “Thank you.”
    “What’s your name?” she asked.
    “Alan,” I said.
    “Nice to meet you, Alan,” she said. “I’m Lori.”
    “Pleasure,” I said. “You’re from Arnold?”
    “No. I live four miles south of here in Barnhart. I’m telling you, you coming through here is the most exciting thing that’s happened in Arnold this month.”
    Hearing this made me a little sad for the people of Arnold.
    A bell rang and Lori said, “There’s your order. I’ll be right back.” She returned with a tray holding a hamburgerwrapped in yellow waxed paper and a paper sack with my okra, which was lightly fried, the interior a greenish-yellow pod. She rang up my bill. “That’ll be six forty-nine.”
    I took out my wallet and paid her. “Thank you.” I carried my food over to one of the little tables. The burger and Pepsi were good. The okra I could pass on. I finished eating my burger, then said goodbye to Lori.
    “What did you think of the okra?” she asked.
    “I’m glad I tried it,” I said, finishing the thought in my head, so I know not to order it again .
    “Glad you enjoyed it,” she said happily. “Can I refill your cup?”
    “Actually, could you just put some ice and water in it?”
    “Of course. You can just toss that, I’ll get you a new cup.” She returned a minute later with my water.
    “Thank you,” I said. “Have a great day.”
    “You too. Good luck on your walk.”
    I shrugged on my pack and started off again.
    Over the next several miles the landscape grew more rural, and homes and buildings became farther apart. An hour from Arnold, I reached Barnhart, the hometown of Lori at Bob’s Drive-In.
    Two hours later the landscape changed to broad, green cornfields. It was already getting dark, and I began looking for a place to spend the night. In trying to prove to myself that I was fully recovered, I had done the opposite. My head was aching and I felt too exhausted to erect my tent, but the sky was threatening, so I started looking for a structure I could sleep under. After wandering a while I came to a church with a sign that read:
    Connection Worship
    Experience Pentecost
    On the side of the church was an open, three-walled shed. I walked up a wide, gravel drive to the building and knocked on the door to the church. A minute later a corpulent, red-faced man, with curly, receding hair and a broad smile, welcomed me.
    “Good evening. What can I do for you, my friend?”
    “I’m just passing through town. I was wondering if I could sleep in your shed over there.”
    “I’m afraid that wouldn’t be very comfortable. But you can sleep inside. We have an extra bedroom.”
    “I really don’t want to be any trouble,” I said.
    “I live for trouble,” the man