We begin in the Valley...

Yea, though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death,

 I will fear no evil, for thou art with me.

Psalm 23

PROLOGUE

            Outside the black night has shrouded the earth and normal, sane people are home in their beds, snuggled deep into soft comforters as they sleep away the dregs of winter. But here the lights are always on, a false-bright fluorescent glow that does more to enhance the ghostly pallor of the room’s inhabitants than to provide illumination. It is easy to forget that the clock has now wheeled into the PM hours. The elevator doors outside this glass room still open and close, depositing startled passengers who blink like rabbits at the light, or swallowing those too weary to wait any longer and carrying them down three flights, out into the anonymous night.

            They have split into two camps, the people in this room. The mother and the father sit in one corner, almost motionless. They have little to say to each other; they have logged too many hours in rooms like this one and conversation has always proved pointless. There are no easy answers. Their younger son hovers near, pacing, sometimes making a comment about football or baseball to the father, the only language the older man really speaks. The answer is always monosyllabic; still, he tried. He is the good son, the one with a college education and an important job. Upon his arrival an hour ago, he tried to make himself a part of both camps, offering hugs and sympathetic remarks all around. He could not. The sides were taken years ago. He has, for the moment, chosen where he will try and infuse his strength. It will be with these two older people who hide behind their silence like a shield.

            The other camp is larger and not nearly so silent, although they still speak in hushed tones. The wife and daughter sit side by side, leaning into each other. They, too, have been in this room—or ones almost like it—before. The wife’s best friend and her mother are there as well, offering bottled drinks and packaged crackers and shoulders to lean on. On this side of the room there is only care and compassion; blame is slowly migrating from the other side, but for the moment the wife’s forces protect her. Two deacons from church have also arrived, gray-haired men whose retirement years have been spent in hospital waiting rooms, comforting others. They carried with them thermoses of hot coffee, knowing that souls, too, can sometimes be chilled.

            The latest arrival has been the preacher, emerging from the elevator with his wife in tow less than a half-hour ago. The guards, of course, stopped him because visiting hours are over but his membership in the cloth buys him some privileges. His own wife—after perfunctory greetings and introductions—has aligned herself with the larger group. There is safety in numbers. The preacher is still trying to run interference, moving back and forth from the edge of one group to another, balancing himself on the toes of his tennis shoes as he teeters back and forth. He can be forgiven; he is familiar, friendly even, with one group and cannot fathom the gulf that separates them from the other. He will figure it out soon enough. The younger son offers a weak smile, sympathy for a fellow peacemaker.

            The phone rings. It is an out-of-date black wall phone with a rotary dial, affixed to the corner wall nearest the door. Its ring is unnaturally loud and somehow seems a malapropism; how can Bell Telephone lines stretch here to the nether world? The occupants of the room are startled; they have forgotten in just a few hours how to pick up a telephone and talk. After several more jarring reverberations, the younger son breaks camp and answers. His greeting is muffled. He listens, nods a silent response. When he speaks, his voice echoes as all the room’s occupants strain to hear his every word.

            “Yes, Janet,” he says, speaking the name of his younger sister. “Well, that’s all we really know right now. He’s still in surgery. No, we haven’t seen the doctor again…” he casts a questioning look at his father, who shakes his head. “No, not yet.” He listens for a moment, shaking his head. “No, don’t come. There’s nothing you can do. It’s too far to drive tonight. Yes, she’s here.” Silently, he hands the phone to the wife, casting an apologetic look to the older couple.

            The wife’s forces gather closer as she grips the black handset. She is pale, but calm; she has had practice at this sort of thing. She will impart just the right amount of comfort over the phone, but ask none for herself. Her voice, when she speaks, does not crack but conveys itself over the phone lines with the distinct, clear pronunciations heeded in classrooms. “Hello, Janet,” she says. “As far as we know, this is what happened…”