Cecilia was standing in front of Aunt Betty’s coffin when it happened. Calvin squirmed out of her arms and, yelling a stream of semi-gibberish, launched himself into the casket. It took a moment before she spotted the tiny sandal lodged between Aunt Betty’s left shoe and a wooden box. Calvin hated being barefoot. Before she could reach for it, Bryson took her by the elbow and steered her away. Calvin toddled behind, still crying. They proceeded out of the church into the dry heat of the parking lot, not a strip of grass to be seen. “Why do they never put lawns in these places?” Cecilia scooped up Calvin. He stopped sniveling and handed her a square of card stock. On it was typed “Hab 2:9.” “They need the parking,” Bryson shaded his eyes, “On Sundays, this place overflows. You’re lucky to find a spot, and that’s with running two services.” “Then you must know what this means,” Cecilia held up the card. Bryson took the card, then crumpled it in his fist, “There is no book of Ha