Free The Valley of Dry Bones by Jerry B. Jenkins

my way in an hour, but an hour after that I’ll need to start working with Katashi on dinner.”
    It was just as well Zeke, Mahir, and Doc had never devised a way to override the government’s scramble of the airwaves to get a TV picture into the compound. Audio was the best they could manage, and it was enough. Movies and TV shows might have been just enough diversion to lend some sanity to such an existence, but Zeke was certain the entertainment would have become an addiction that would have softened them all.
    As it was he’d made an executive decision and restricted recreational listening to the audio feed of most of the drivel. News and documentaries and some movies were fine. People tired of most of it without being able to see the visuals, but he at least had to know what was going on in the world every day.
    Though he was ravenous, he devoured twenty-five minutes of headline news before he, Alexis, and Sasha sat munching dried hollyleaf cherries and juniper berries along with salted strips of gecko jerky. Zeke felt edgy after such a harrowing day, but he tried to head off Alexis’s concern by saying how well he thought the memorial service had gone. She wasn’t biting.
    â€œIt was nice,” she said, “no thanks to you.”
    â€œMom!”
    â€œI’m not scolding him, Sasha,” Alexis said. “I’m just saying he seemed less focused than I might have wished.”
    â€œYeah, Dad, what was up with that?”
    â€œKatashi saw Mongers on his way in, that’s all. Put me on alert. But I thought you were great, hon. And Sash, that opening song—I gotta tell ya—how’d you come up with that anyway?”
    â€œIt just hit me that slow would be interesting. I didn’t expect it to come out so special.”
    â€œIt moved everybody,” he said. “Me especially. Hey, by the way, Mrs. Meeks would like you to drop by for an hour or so. Can you do that?”
    Sasha squinted at him. “Really?”
    â€œYeah, that all right?”
    â€œSure, but that’s what she wants? It was her idea?”
    â€œWell, I—uh, truth is . . .”
    â€œDad! You don’t have to make up stories to get rid of me.”
    â€œNo! I—”
    â€œJust tell me. It’s okay.”
    â€œForgive me, sweetie. You’re right.”
    â€œRight now?”
    â€œPlease. If you don’t mind.”
    â€œOn my way.”
    â€œThanks, and again, sorry.”
    â€œIt’s okay, Dad. I like when you owe me.”
    She left with a smile, but Alexis looked bemused. “What is going on?” she said.
    â€œWe just have to talk, that’s all.”
    â€œI had a feeling,” Alexis said.

7
THE TALK
    T HIS WAS WORSE than being sent to the principal’s office. And Zeke couldn’t understand why his mouth was so dry. Why should it be hard to share something personal, something meaningful, with the person closest to him in life? If she couldn’t understand, couldn’t empathize, didn’t have counsel or input or advice, who would?
    He would talk to Pastor Bob too, but this conversation with Alexis was the one that would make or break his future—confirm that something significant was going on or that he was simply off his nut.
    Here sat the most beautiful person in the world to him, inside or out—clichéd as that might sound—all her depth and character and personality in one precious package. And she gazed at him with what appeared to be wonder, expectancy, trust, and yet also puzzlement and perhaps a hint of fear.
    They had been through so much together. Alexis had stood by him, believed in him, supported him, and—especially over these last several years—proved the ferocity of her most sacred wedding vows by virtually and literally giving up everything to join him on the most radical mission a couple could undertake. And now he was going to tell her what?
    â€œI know this is