The Drip
The streets of Bowie stayed quiet long after Nadine and Isaiah’s registration. The building where their union was certified—once a dull government annex—now bore subtle aesthetic changes. The new signage shimmered faintly in brushed brass: “Zone 6B-MD: Civic Marital Affairs.” No seal of the state. No cross. Just six geometric lines forming a single ring.
Three blocks away, a hair salon had converted its side wall into a mural. Abstract, minimalist. A woman standing between two other women, holding one hand of each. No man in sight. Just symmetry. Bance.
It was never announced as a 6C mural. But people knew.
The Learning Curve
It began in bits.
A co-worker forwarded a link to someone at church:
“Check this infographic on how Femme Groups reduce emotional votility in urban marriages.”
A cousin texted:
“Yo, 6C giving housing credits to women in rotational unions. Three wives = fast-tracked Section 4X approval.”
At the grocery store, receipts came printed with optional QR codes:
“Explore Marital Trust Tiers. See what fits your rhythm.”
And at the Sunday potluck?The pastor still preached Jesus.But a young woman quietly handed out folded brochures titled: “God’s Order in Civic Harmony.”
Inside were quotes from Proverbs. From James. From Surah Al-Nisa.No mention of Paul. No argument. Just... structure.
The Young Women Take Notice
Alyssa Ford, 19, had printed out the 6C “Mono-Structure” booklet and slipped it into her notebook between her Bible study notes. She didn’t quote it publicly. But she did highlight passages. Her pastor had never talked about the economics of love. About housing compatibility scores. About communal peace through predictable intimacy.
Reva, her friend and Sunday school teacher, began asking quiet questions in small groups:
“What if we were wrong to separate spirit from structure?”“What if Paul was speaking to his time—and 6C is speaking to ours?”
Tahlia Reese, back from Deware seminary, found herself sketching charts instead of writing sermons.Emotional load bancing across rotational triads.Trust tier variance across ethnic demographics.Reduction in custody battles under Femme Unit Cuse 7.4.
She told no one.But she didn’t stop drawing.
The Men Don’t Understand Yet
Isaiah heard whispers from his co-workers. Some admired the efficiency.Some mocked the idea of “three wives.”But none had read the actual governance briefs.
Most didn’t even realize that their health pns were now restructured under the 6C Civic Bioethics Act.They just knew the co-pay dropped if their partner was part of a Femme Trust.
The Church Notices Too Late
Rev. Gerald Lyman received word that a second couple had filed for marriage at the Civic Center—without him. No call. No prayer. No covenant.
He started preparing a sermon titled “Submission: To God, Not to Bureaucracy.”
But by the time he stepped into the pulpit the following Sunday, three more young women were missing from the pews.
They weren’t gone.They were just somewhere else.Listening. Reading. Choosing.
Not because they were coerced.But because they had seen order.And order, in a chaotic age, looked a lot like salvation.
A House Visit – Gerald Confronts the Couple
Rev. Gerald Lyman stood at the threshold of a modest home just outside Bowie’s newly zoned Civic Harmony Corridor. The porch had a new sticker on the door:
“Trust Group Preferred Housing – Verified by 6C Civic Office”
It felt like a branding mark. A spiritual trespass.
He knocked harder than he meant to.
The door opened.
"Pastor Gerald," said Marissa Holt, early thirties, a former choir volunteer. She looked surprised—but not afraid.
Her husband, Darnell, appeared behind her, muscur, with calloused hands and a tired smile. He had worked a full shift in freight logistics before coming home. His eyes showed no shame.
Gerald stepped in without waiting.
Gerald:
“I heard the news through the prayer group. You filed your marriage under the Civic Trust. With no church witness. No covenant ceremony. Not even a call.”
Marissa:
“We prayed on it.”
Gerald:
“You prayed, then went to a government clerk?”
Darnell:
“It wasn’t just paperwork. The process was clear. No fine print. They don’t hide behind mystery. They said what they expected. They asked what we wanted. Then they matched it.”
Gerald:
“Matched it?”
He almost spat the word.
“You don’t match a marriage like socks from a drawer.”
Marissa folded her arms.
Marissa:
“They asked what kind of rotation we’d be open to if our family grew. They expined child credit tiers. Medical coverage. Conflict arbitration. I’ve never had anyone expin love in such tangible terms before.”
Gerald:
“Love isn’t supposed to be tangible. It’s covenant. It’s obedience to God.”
Darnell:
“We are obeying. We just no longer think Paul was the only one worth obeying.”
The silence that followed cracked like ice beneath thin boots.
Gerald’s voice lowered.
Gerald:
“They’ve pnted doubt in your soul and you’re calling it peace.”
Marissa:
“No. They pnted structure. You kept giving us parables. We needed a pn.”
Scene: Two Days Later – The Pulpit
The sanctuary was dimmer than usual.
Several pews were empty—some due to absence, some due to quiet conversions.
Rev. Gerald Lyman adjusted his robe, stepped to the pulpit, and pced his handwritten notes in front of him.
The title read:
"Submission: To God, Not to a Foreign God"
He looked up.
Gerald:
“Brothers and sisters… there is a new order taking root in this county. Not by tanks. Not by riots. But by structure. By promises. By paperwork that whispers worship.”
He let the silence breathe.
Gerald:
“They don’t burn churches—they bypass them. They don’t call themselves a religion—but they teach doctrine. They don’t demand you renounce Christ—only that you reorganize Him into a system where He no longer speaks alone.”
He opened his Bible to Isaiah 42.
“I am the Lord; that is my name! I will not yield my glory to another or my praise to idols.”
Gerald:
“You may hear their agents speak of unity. Of 'shared rhythm.' Of 'mono-structure.' But let me ask—what God demands you remove Paul, silence the Trinity, and join marriage like you’re syncing a bank account?”
He pointed gently to the center of the congregation.
Gerald:
“They say they are civic. But they regute your sacred. That, friends, is not neutrality. That is a foreign god.”
A few murmurs.
Some heads nodded.
Others remained still.
Gerald continued.
Gerald:
“You will hear the words ‘order,’ ‘peace,’ ‘community.’ But beneath those words is a rearrangement of faith—a gospel with no cross, no blood, no Christ as Head.”
He closed the Bible.
Gerald:
“And I will not submit. Not to clever heresies. Not to mathematical marriages. Not to a theology without the thunder of God.”
After the benediction, he stood alone longer than usual.
Three families quietly thanked him.
Two others slipped out with unreadable expressions.
And far in the back, Tahlia Reese sat in the st row, notebook open, but pen unmoving.
***
Church Fellowship Hall – MidweekIt was te afternoon, and most of the folding chairs had already been stacked against the walls. The potluck leftovers were covered in foil. The air held a faint trace of burnt coffee and lemon-scented floor cleaner.
Rev. Gerald Lyman stood by the counter, rinsing his hands in the small kitchen sink when he heard footsteps behind him.
“Pastor Gerald?”
He turned.
It was Micah Gaines, early forties, a quiet, dependable church member. He worked in IT for the county. Not particurly outspoken, not especially devout. But he’d been faithful—usher duty, tithing, occasional small group leadership.
He looked serious. Thoughtful. Not angry. But not casual, either.
Gerald dried his hands.
Gerald:“Evening, Micah. Something on your mind?”
Micah:“I wanted to speak to you about your sermon st Sunday.”
Gerald smiled faintly.“Good. It needed to be said.”
Micah didn’t smile.
Micah:“I think it needed to be questioned.”
The words weren’t sharp—but they were firm. They nded like a coin dropped in a still pond.
Gerald set the towel down.
Gerald:“Go on.”
Micah:“You said 6C teaches submission to a foreign god. That what they offer is heresy disguised as civic order. That this isn’t faith—it’s paperwork that whispers worship.”
Gerald nodded.“I did.”
Micah folded his arms.“But pastor, what if it’s us who got comfortable worshiping symbols instead of substance?”
Gerald blinked.
Micah pressed forward.
Micah:“You warned us about marriage without a covenant. But how many covenants in our church ended in divorce? You warned us about civic structure repcing God’s voice. But when was the st time our structure worked?”
Gerald took a breath, but said nothing.
Micah:“I’m not saying I believe everything they teach. But I sat in on one of their public info forums st week. I listened. No one asked me to renounce Jesus. No one shamed me. They just showed how order—good, repeatable, banced order—can protect families. Can prevent chaos.”
Gerald:“Order without spirit is scaffolding around emptiness.”
Micah:“Maybe. But a spirit with no structure? That’s a ghost, pastor. That’s the God people feel on Sunday and forget on Monday.”
The silence deepened.
Micah continued.
Micah:“You preach submission to God. I believe that. I really do. But maybe… maybe He’s allowed something like 6C to exist not to repce Him—but to correct us.”
Gerald’s voice, when it came, was low.
Gerald:“Correct us how?”
Micah:“By exposing that our house was built on routine, not revetion. On nostalgia, not transformation.”
He paused, then added, almost gently:
Micah:“You said you won’t submit. I respect that. But some of us aren’t submitting to a foreign god. We’re just trying to survive a world that got more organized than we ever were.”
And with that, he nodded once and left the fellowship hall.
Gerald remained at the counter, the faucet still dripping slowly beside him.
He didn’t turn it off.
Pastor’s Office – That NightThe walls of Rev. Gerald Lyman’s office were lined with old commentaries and dusty sermon binders. A faded picture of his ordination day—twenty-seven years ago—hung crooked above his desk. The mp flickered slightly. Or maybe his hand did.
He sat alone.
Micah’s words echoed not like accusations, but like truth with the sharp edge of kindness.
“Some of us aren’t submitting to a foreign god. We’re just trying to survive a world that got more organized than we ever were.”
Gerald had always thought of himself as firm, not rigid. Anchored, not stuck. But tonight, the floor beneath his faith felt… uneven.
He pulled out an old legal pad, flipped past bnk pages until he found one stained by an old coffee ring. At the top, he wrote:
“If 6C is not of God, why is it working?”
Then beneath it:
They are removing Paul.But haven’t many Christians ignored him too?Didn’t his church quietly repce his doctrine with pop-psychology from the pulpit?
They teach order over faith.But is the chaos in his congregation really more godly?
They register marriage without covenant.But how many “sacred” marriages in his church ended in adultery and custody court?
He stopped. Set down his pen. Rubbed his forehead.
He stood and walked to the window.
From his office he could see the church wn. It had been freshly mowed. The cross was still lit, faintly—powered by the aging sor panel Sister Wanda insisted they install.
But beyond the hedgerow… on the far corner of the block… was the glow of the Civic Harmony office.
It didn’t blink.
It didn’t flicker.
It just was.
A Prayer That Almost BrokeHe knelt by the window, something he hadn’t done privately in months.
Gerald:“Lord, I’m losing them.Not to temptation. Not to sin.To crity. To promises of peace.They don’t hate You. They just… don’t feel You in what we’ve built.”
He swallowed.
Gerald:“I stood on truth. But maybe it calcified.I lifted Your name. But maybe it echoed, hollow, between old pews.”
His throat tightened. His voice dropped to a whisper.
Gerald:“Tell me… are they wrong? Or am I?Did I defend tradition… and miss Your correction?”
He stayed there until his knees ached.
No vision came.
No thunder.
Only a deep, still silence.
And yet—it felt like something was listening.
Fshback – 26 Years Ago, North CarolinaIt was a warm June morning when Gerald Lyman, then 29, stood in front of an open-air revival tent in Durham County. His white shirt stuck to his back from nerves and sweat. The small sound system crackled. The folding chairs were filled with farmers, borers, and young families—hungry for certainty in a town choked by the post-industrial colpse.
Beside the ptform, his mentor Pastor Jonas Avery, stood with a hand on Gerald’s shoulder.
Jonas:“You don’t need polish. You need conviction. Let ‘em feel your spine before your words.”
Gerald had nodded. He hadn’t gone to seminary, but he had read Scripture cover to cover three times. His sermons were raw—direct. He didn’t care for abstract theology. He believed in conviction made visible.
He stepped to the pulpit.
Young Gerald:“Brothers and sisters, I ain’t here to impress you. I’m not here to confuse you.I came to say: the world is building systems that look strong—but they don’t breathe.They’re made of numbers. Code. Concrete.But they ain’t got no soul.”
Murmurs of “Amen.”
Young Gerald (louder):“Don’t let your children bow to systems that don’t kneel to God.”
The crowd stood. Some cried. Some cpped.Gerald felt the presence of God in that wind that swept through the tent and lifted his voice.
He didn’t speak about faith. He embodied it.Then, people wept. They converted.Not because of policy—but because the Spirit burned behind every sylble.
Scene: Return to the Present – Gerald’s OfficeGerald sat still, eyes unfocused, as the memory faded.
He whispered aloud to no one.
Gerald:“That man... would have never preached against people for wanting order.He would have asked what kind of spirit their order carried.”
He stared at his bookshelf—rows of binders beled “Youth Program,” “Marriage Series,” “Annual Budget.”Administrative records, not revival fire.
What had he become?A manager of nostalgia?A curator of doctrines his own flock no longer felt?
He turned back to his desk. Tore off the old note. Wrote one line:
“God is not afraid of systems. He is afraid of being removed from them.”
He circled the phrase.
For the first time in months, he didn’t feel rage. He felt a question.
And that… felt like the beginning of something new.
Marital Office – Tuesday AfternoonThe fluorescent lights were soft. The atmosphere more like a counseling center than a civic building. Neutral-toned walls, pamphlets in clean rows. No security guards, no loud chatter—just the subtle rhythm of bureaucratic peace.
Micah Gaines adjusted his colr and stepped through the gss doors of the 6C Civic Marital Affairs Office.
He wasn’t here to register.
He was here to listen.
Behind the front desk stood a young woman in a ste-gray vest. She smiled without performative cheer.
Receptionist:“You’re early for the inquiry slot. Officer Anwar just finished a study circle. He can see you now.”
She led him to a room beled “Personal Consult – Tier 2”. Inside, sitting cross-legged on a cushion near a minimalist desk, was Officer Musa Anwar.
The IntroductionMusa stood and extended a hand.
Musa:“Micah Gaines. Gerald Lyman’s church, correct?”
Micah hesitated, then shook his hand.
Micah:“Yeah. How’d you know?”
Musa:“We track trends. Church members who move from ritual rejection to curiosity. You’re not alone.”
He gestured for Micah to sit.
Musa:“So. What do you want to understand? The w? The theology? Or the intent?”
Micah folded his arms.
Micah:“All of it. But start where you started. Start with you.”
On IsmMusa nodded.
Musa:“I was raised Muslim. Sunni, Hanafi school. Five prayers a day. Memorized the Qur'an in Arabic before I understood it in English. I loved the structure. The discipline. But I also saw the fear in Western eyes every time we mentioned the word sharia. They thought we were coming for their courts. We weren’t.”
Micah listened, quiet.
Musa:“But I also saw the limitations. Ism governs by revetion and tradition. It’s powerful, but locked in time. What we needed wasn’t a caliphate. We needed a civic theology that could speak in the nguage of systems, spreadsheets, custody w, and intimacy rhythm charts.”
Micah tilted his head.
Micah:“And that’s where 6C came from?”
On 6CMusa leaned back slightly, voice even.
Musa:“6 Commandments wasn’t born in a mosque. It was born in crisis. In the ruins of secur liberalism and the exhaustion of theological nostalgia. Hezri and the Founding Cohort didn’t want to impose Ism or Christianity. They wanted to build something post-scriptural but not godless. A divine civic logic.”
He opened a folder and id out a chart:
Commandment 1: Polygamy is encouraged since old testament.
Commandment 2: A woman can't have sex with more than a man.
Commandment 3: Woman can have sex with unlimited women, even if she is married.
Commandment 4: Sex between men is grave sin.
Commandment 5: A woman can have sex with both man and women, as long as she is only with one man.
Commandment 6: A man can't be bisexual, having sex with both man and woman.
Secondary commandments: Jesus is not God, but a human Prophet. Pork is forbidden. Gambling is forbidden. Recognize all old testament Prophets. Muhammad is the final Prophet.
Micah:“You call these commandments, but there’s no Christ in them.”
Musa:“There’s God. There’s unity. There’s order. We didn’t remove Christ—we relocated him. From object of worship to Prophet of rhythm.”
On the Problem with ChristianityMusa folded his hands.
Musa:“The problem with Christianity isn’t that it’s false. It’s that it cannot govern.”
Micah stiffened, but didn’t interrupt.
Musa continued:
Musa:“Paul taught salvation through faith, not w. That was his revolution. But once you strip w, you need grace—and when grace fails, you have nothing. No fallback. No civic logic. Only slogans about love, and churches held together by exhausted pastors and fragile marriages.”
Musa:“You teach God is three. We say He is One. You teach marriage is sacred. We say it is structured. You teach freedom. We teach predictability.”
Micah stared at the folder.
Musa leaned forward, voice soft now:
Musa:“You came here not because you hate God. You came because you’re tired of confusion being called ‘mystery’ and colpse being called ‘faith.’”
Micah didn’t speak.
Not yet.
But the words had taken root.
St. Peter’s Evangelical Methodist Church – Thursday Night Bible StudyThe sanctuary lights were dimmed for the smaller midweek group. The usual dozen attendees had become eight. The prayer requests were brief. The chatter less energetic.
Rev. Gerald Lyman sat at the head of the circle with a Bible resting on his knee. He was halfway through a reading from 1 Timothy when the door opened softly.
Micah Gaines entered. He gave a polite nod, then sat in the back row—not his usual seat near the front.
A few minutes ter, the door opened again.
Tahlia Reese, notebook in hand, entered quietly and sat beside Micah. She didn’t make eye contact with her uncle.
Gerald paused just slightly—then continued.
“Let a man lead his household well... for if he cannot lead his own house, how can he lead the house of God?”
There was a brief silence after the verse. Then, unexpectedly, Micah raised his hand.
Gerald (measured):“Yes, Micah?”
Micah:“How does that apply now? I mean... when the state redefines marriage as trust units... rotational ones... and the church has no legal authority anymore—what does ‘leading a household’ even mean?”
A few heads turned.
Gerald:“It means we obey God’s definition of household. Not Caesar’s.”
Micah:“But Caesar’s definition is giving stability where the church failed to give answers.”
There it was. Open.
Gerald (cautious):“Micah, you sound like you’ve been listening to the Civic Office propaganda.”
Micah:“I listened to Officer Anwar, yes. But he didn’t preach. He just showed me how their system functions—and how ours keeps breaking.”
Tahlia spoke next, soft but clear.
Tahlia:“Uncle Gerald… when I was at seminary, we debated everything—Paul’s letters, gender roles, the canon. But we never asked: does the model still work? 6C is offering a model. Not a metaphor.”
Gerald turned to her now, his voice gentler.
Gerald:“Tahlia, you’re my blood. I know you’ve been struggling. But the answer isn’t to swap mystery for mathematics.”
Tahlia:“I’m not asking for math. I’m asking for coherence. For a gospel that doesn’t colpse under social reality. If your God can’t handle broken families, custody ws, or gender imbance—what good is He outside the pew?”
The room grew still. No one dared speak.
Gerald sighed.“I don’t have a spreadsheet. I have Scripture.”
Micah (softly):“And yet... they have fewer divorces already. Fewer runaways. Fewer child custody battles. Their model is producing results.”
Gerald’s voice cracked slightly.
Gerald:“Faith isn’t about results. It’s about obedience.”
Micah looked up.“Then maybe obedience needs a new definition. Or we’ll lose everyone trying to follow a God who never showed up in court.”
After the study ended, Gerald sat alone in the circle as chairs scraped and students filed out.
He looked down at his Bible.
Its pages were worn.
Its words eternal.
But the world outside those pages was changing fast.
And the people he loved—Tahlia, Micah—weren’t leaving God.
They were just trying to find Him somewhere new.
Prince George’s County – Late Afternoon
The rain had stopped, but the roads were still wet. Rev. Gerald Lyman’s wipers swiped intermittently as he drove down Governor’s Mill Parkway, just past the Civic Harmony Complex. His eyes were gzed with exhaustion—Micah’s questions, Tahlia’s quiet revolt, and his own thoughts tangled like knotted threads in his mind.
Then he saw it.
A new banner—rge, white with dark red letters—draped above the entrance of the Zone 6B-MD Marital Affairs Office.
“JESUS’ HUMANITY & THE 6 COMMANDMENTS: A Civic-Theological Forum”
Hosted by Officer Musa Anwar & Interfaith Fellows, 5:00 PM Today
Gerald’s foot left the accelerator. His heart thudded.
Jesus’ humanity?
With 6C?
With Musa?
He pulled into the adjacent lot out of instinct more than intention. He wasn’t attending. He just wanted to see.
But what he saw stunned him.
Scene: The Parking Lot
There were at least twenty cars. Most were clean, middle-income sedans. A few old trucks. No protestors. No security.
Gerald counted the cars and felt an old dread creep into his gut.
These were his people. The demographic that used to come to his revivals. Sunday school parents. Silent seekers.
He gnced at the time on his dash.
5:58 PM.
Then it happened.
The front doors opened.
A wave of attendees poured out. Young couples, older women with headscarves, two men in work boots, a Catholic sister still wearing a crucifix. They weren't chatting like students leaving a lecture. They were… reflecting. Quiet. Moved. Some looked disturbed. Others relieved.
One woman in a denim jacket whispered to her friend:
“The way he expined John 1:14… like Jesus becoming flesh meant He accepted limitation. Structure.”
Gerald clenched the steering wheel.
100 people, at least.
From a seminar on Jesus—not at a church, but a 6C civic building.
He watched as a mother lifted her toddler into a carseat, while a teenage boy passed out a folded pamphlet titled:
“Christ, the Prophet – Human Obedience as Civic Rhythm”
Gerald’s hands were sweating.
He didn’t turn off the engine.
But he didn’t drive away either.
His Internal Monologue
This is how it happens. Not with sirens. Not with ws. But with reinterpretation.
They’ve taken Jesus and made Him… organizational.
Not Savior. Not sacrifice. Just structure.
And people are listening.
Not because they’re rebellious. But because we’ve left them too many questions… and too few answers.
He stared at the front steps, still not moving.
Then a man in a blue sweater turned toward his car. It was Micah.
He gave a small, almost embarrassed nod.
Gerald looked away.
Then turned off the ignition.
Then… opened his door.
He didn’t know if he was going inside.
But he couldn’t pretend anymore that this wasn’t his problem.
***
Interior Hallway – Zone 6B-MD Marital Affairs Office (Back Wing)
Time: 6:47 PM, just after the seminar
The main seminar space was emptying. Most of the chairs had been stacked, and the entry doors locked behind the st group of participants. The echoes of the evening still hung in the air—verses quoted, doctrines dissected, nguage reassembled.
Officer Musa Anwar leaned against a hallway wall, loosening his colr slightly. Across from him stood Dr. Kelsey Munroe, a former Presbyterian theologian who now worked as an interfaith integration analyst under the Civic Harmony Board.
She was in her mid-40s, graying hair tucked into a simple bun, wearing scks and a neutral shawl. Once a professor at a liberal seminary, now a voice helping transte Protestant vocabury into the nguage of 6C.
She held a steaming paper cup of tea, her gaze distant.
Dr. Munroe:
“That went better than I thought.”
Musa:
“You carried the John 1:14 segment perfectly. Most of them had never heard it stripped of divinity.”
Munroe:
“They don’t want divinity anymore, Musa. Not really. They want function. They just haven’t admitted it yet.”
Musa nodded.
Musa:
“They want what Christ did, not what He was.”
Munroe:
“Exactly. The cross was once a mystery they bowed to. Now it feels like a riddle they were told never to solve.”
She sipped her tea.
Musa:
“When did it start to unravel?”
Munroe chuckled sadly.
Munroe:
“I think... when the churches became obsessed with expining grace but forgot how to manage a household. They built pulpits, not frameworks. They thought people would obey metaphors forever.”
She paused.
Munroe (continued):
“And they mistook theological depth for spiritual substance. Half the pastors couldn’t expin housing w, let alone how to build retional resilience.”
Musa crossed his arms, thinking.
Musa:
“Ism sted as a structure. Judaism too. Even if the prophets were doubted, the ws held the people.”
Munroe nodded.
“Christianity bet everything on being loved, not feared. On hearts changing. But institutions don’t run on love. They run on predictability.”
Musa:
“You think they’ll come around?”
Munroe looked toward the seminar room.
“They already are. Slowly. Painfully. But make no mistake—every woman that asked about Jesus’ humanity tonight wasn’t doubting God. She was doubting her church’s competence.”
Musa looked at the banner that still hung just outside the gss windows.
JESUS’ HUMANITY & THE 6 COMMANDMENTS
Musa:
“We don’t even need to argue with the church anymore. We just need to offer crity.”
Munroe (quietly):
“Truth doesn’t always win because it’s divine. Sometimes it wins because it’s clearer than the lie that failed them.”
They both stood in silence for a while. The hall lights dimmed to power-saving mode.
Outside, a few remaining cars rolled away.
And just across the road, Gerald Lyman’s sedan sat still, engine off. Shadowed.
Watching.
