With them stands my pastor. He stands with a solemn face. The air is quiet, the crowd stands still. Whispers rise as I walk through the doorway, as...they see me come for the final time. There are no welcome faces, none at all. Only faces of condemnation. In the center of the platform lies a tall wooden cross, waiting to be raised. Waiting for me. I feel fear. I stop walking. My guard grabs my arm and pulls me forward. Towards the platform. Towards my death. My fear grows. My heart. I touch a finger to his face, as gentle as moth, a dream. I trace aneyebrow, the line of nose, lightly, more lightly still, his upper lip.A finger, lightly, follows the path where crew cut hair and sun-browedskin meet. Behind an ear. Bristles on a chin might burn, touched just alittle harder. Down.My palm can't quite cover the firm muscle above his heart. I leave itthere, to feel the slow beat, steady, calm. He stirs a little, butdoesn't waken. Fingers on shoulders, down arm. Down. In the warm. More

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