“And stay on the phone with me,” God says. “I’m loving our little chat.”
I drop to my knees, then sit. I think of clicking over to Matt, screaming into the phone for help, but it’s been too long. There’s no way he’s still holding for me. He’s probably on his way to pick up his mom right now.
The fly that won’t go away buzzes close this time, and when I brush it away, the back of my hand makes contact. The fly is too big to be a fly.
I freeze again, for another reason.
I hear what I didn’t before: the hum in the background.
I look up, and there it is.
On a branch directly above me, I see it.
The hive.
“I have to move,” I say into the phone.
“What’s that?” God murmurs. It sounds like he’s preoccupied with something else.
“I said I can’t stay where I am,” I say. I’m not sure what he’s planning for me, but it might not be death. That’s more than I can say for the bees.
“Why not?” God asks curiously. “Just a moment.” I hear tapping, then nothing for a few seconds. I watch the silhouette appear in the window, then disappear again. A few seconds later, I hear two more taps, and then a small laugh.
“Oh my goodness,” God mutters to himself, amused. “That is too good. Ironic, if you think about it.”
“I’m moving, okay?” I say, standing slowly. “I’m walking toward the house. Tell your friend not to shoot me or anything.”
There’s a long, drawn-out pause. I can hear him breathing into the phone, through my ear and into the fear control panel in my brain.
“I told you to sit still.” His voice is humorless and frigid. Terrifying.
“I can’t,” I say. “The bees will sting me.”
“I assure you that worse will happen if you move,” God says.
In the end, I don’t debate it that long. Rationalizing that God would have instructed his lackey to shoot me in the beginning if he’d wanted me to die that way, I take a step.
Then I take another.
I hear tapping.
“Bad move,” God says. “What a colossal waste of Revive you were.”
Ignoring him, I take one more step, and the silhouette—Jesus—appears in the window. He props open the glass, and even from this great distance I can see the weapon aimed in my direction. I close my eyes and hold my breath, willing it to be quick.
There’s a funny sound behind me, like a pebble hitting a pillow. Confused, I turn to look. And that’s when I realize what he’s done.
Jesus didn’t shoot me; he shot the hive.
Angry bees spill out of the gaping hole in their home, seeking vengeance on anyone stupid enough to be standing nearby. I turn back to the house and see that Jesus is gone from the window. Even though I’m unsure where he is, there’s no question now that I have to move. I take three steps before I hear the bees swarming above my head. Tears fill my eyes and fall down my cheeks; I don’t move to wipe them away. In fact, other than my feet, the rest of my body is still. No. Sudden. Movements.
Step.
Inhale.
Step.
Exhale.