"Don't start without me!" Bobby shouts. Then he tells Bubba to move over, and we hear the zip of his sleeping bag. "Don't snore, Bubba, okay, okay?"

To which Bubba mutters, "I'm trying to sleep."

There is a last cry from Bobby. "When will it be breakfast? Why can't it be morning already?"

thirty-seven.

What's wrong with Rhonda?" I ask.

Robert glances back at the area behind us where the tents are and says, "She'll be all right."

"Did the talk about God upset her?"

When the children were finally settled in their tents, Robert, Zack, Rhonda, and I had circled around the campfire with mugs of decaf coffee. I'd supplied the coffee-Starbucks Hazelnut. I even provided a small carton of half-and-half. We boiled the beans in a pan with water until the water was the color of charcoal. Then we filtered the dark liquid into our mugs. The taste wasn't Starbucks, but it was hot and strong.

Our discussion centered on God and building the kids' faith in Him despite all the hardships the children had been through and continued to deal with.

Zack said he had solid hope that showing God's love to each of the kids would result in something positive. He said he felt every child who attended The Center had showed improvement.

Rhonda disagreed. "They can't experience love," she said as her eyes reflected the fire. "They've been too scarred."

Zack asked if she thought they were a lost cause.

She said, "No, but I don't expect any miracles anytime soon." Her tone was melancholy. Her shoulders slouched, and I wanted to tell her to sit up straight, but I'm glad I didn't. After all, talk of Lavonna Dewanna and her hunchback isn't welcomed at every event.

Zack said, "Don't give up."

"On what, Zack?" she demanded.

If ever there was an undercurrent, that was it. Clearly, she was no longer referring to the kids at The Center, or the other children she and Zack worked with at Social Services. She was jabbing at something else.

He looked over at her, across the flames. In a steady voice, he said, "Only on the kids."

She left after that, heading to the tent she shared with Lisa and Charlotte.

Now, after pouring another cup of coffee and adding cream to it, I try again. "Is Rhonda okay?"

Robert eyes Zack.

Zack tosses a stick into the fire. "She's mad at me."

"Oh." I understand the feeling. I've been mad at him, too. I guess we're all taking turns. Except Zack and Rhonda went out on a date so this is probably some sort of lovers' quarrel. I'm glad I don't have to deal with love anymore. I think of Jonas's words: "No, no. They went out to talk things over. Zack is like that." Well, I don't know if Jonas knows what is really going on. I sure don't.

The fire crackles, and we hear the boys talking in their tent. I wonder if any of the kids is capable of being quiet for any length of time. I see the beams of flashlights dart across the tops of the tents from inside. I hear Rainy say, "Let's tell ghost stories now."

Darren calls from his tent for Zack, and Zack leaves the fire.

Robert edges closer to me. "You know Rhonda has been trying to get Zack's attention for months."

Well, I would say so. I recall their embrace in the kitchen when I walked in on them at the end of August.

"Zack thinks he has to be nice to everybody. I tell him that he has to learn when it comes to being chased by someone you aren't interested in, you have to show some character."

"You told him that?"

"I sure did. He has to tell her where she stands."

In his arms in the kitchen is what I think, but I say nothing. is what I think, but I say nothing.

"I had this woman chase me once." He looks up at a sky of piercingly bright stars and a moon partially covered by a wispy cloud. "I can't say I didn't enjoy it."

I try to remember if anyone has ever hounded me for a date, or for my attention. Nope-unless you count Lester Hurman, and that was back in sixth grade, when I had braces and wore a training bra.

Robert is about to say more, but Zack returns and eases his lean body onto a stone planted across from me. The fire illuminates the features of his face as I wonder if he really doesn't care for Rhonda. Then I shift on the flat stone where I am seated, draw my knees to my chest, and think, Give it up, Deena. You have sworn off all men. You don't need any more confusion in your life. Let it go. Let Zack go.

"Is everything okay?" Robert poses the question to Zack.

"Darren needed his medication."

"He asked for it?"

"Yeah. Two points for him, huh?"

"That's a good sign."

"An improvement over two weeks ago when he refused to take it at school and called the teacher a 'spineless mutation with freakishly large elbows.' "

"That got him detention, I heard."

Zack nods. "That mistake cost him a week."

I never recall calling a teacher any name. I never had detention, either. I couldn't; my mother would have disowned me and then fried me up at the annual barbeque. At least I had a mother who cared about me. And a father. Darren has never known his dad, and over the years, his mother has been charged with and imprisoned for child abuse and neglect. Darren has a good grandma, though. A senior saint.

Robert excuses himself and heads toward the restroom, and now Zack and I are alone.

I sigh and watch the embers glowing against my arms. I've taken off my jacket again, because by the fire-it's warm. My scars don't look as pronounced in the darkness; in fact the fire almost softens them. Maybe if I lived the rest of my life in the evening at campsites, I'd feel more comfortable with my body. Jeannie says when she goes out on dates, she likes to eat at restaurants with candlelight. "I have fewer wrinkles by candlelight," she told me once, as I watched her put on makeup before her dentist-date arrived. Turning to me she said, "But you don't have to worry about wrinkles now, Deena. Wait till you hit thirty-two."

"Thirty-two? That's not that old, Jeannie."

I used to think that by age thirty-two, I'd be pregnant with my youngest child-that is, if Lucas and I stuck to our plan of having two children, two years apart. He wanted a boy first and I wanted a girl. Then I told him it didn't matter which gender arrived first.

Suddenly I realize it has been a while since I've wondered what Lucas is doing. The good thing about being in North Carolina is that I can't run into him like I could in Atlanta. I can shop at Ingle's without worrying that as I decide how much chicken I need for dinner's pot pie, he'll be next to me, looking at steaks to grill.

"A cupcake for your thoughts."

I look over at Zack, who is roasting a marshmallow on a large stick. Coming from anyone else, that line would sound corny. Coming from Zack, it just makes me feel content. I think of the chocolate cupcake Band-Aid on Jonas's forehead and the identical bandage I placed on Charlotte's finger. That was what caused Zack to realize that the woman who put the bandage on his brother was the same one who bandaged Charlotte. Then his mind put two and two together, and he knew all the things about Deirdre his brother had shared with him were really things about Deena at The Center. Which means, he knows so much about me. And I still know very little about him.

"Are you thinking of Atlanta?" Zack asks with a smile.

"How'd you guess?" I can't tell him that I was actually thinking about him and Jonas.

"You have that city-lights glow to your face."

"Is that a good thing?"

"The city is nice."

"Have you ever lived in one?"

"Visited plenty of them. And once those trips were over, I was always glad to be back in the mountains."

"So would you ever do a jigsaw puzzle of a city?"

Zack laughs lightly. "Jonas must have told you that I did a one-thousand-piece puzzle of Boston."

I smile, nod. "He said it took you only six days. He is so proud of you."

We are silent for a while as the crickets and cicadas sing in the woods around us-an orchestra of nature's finest elegance. Instinctively, I listen for the owl. He must be too tired to join in tonight.

Zack leans toward the fire and whispers, "I like your face."

It comes out so naturally, not forced, not asked for, just there, like a hostess offering hors d'oeuvres without any fanfare.

I'm glad it's dark so he can't see me blushing.

"It's nicest when you smile."

"Thanks."

"You should do that more."

It takes me a moment to come up with a response. "Really, why?"

"We deserve to see you happy, don't we?"

Ah, happiness. What is it? Does it exist? Words from Grandpa Ernest's letter come back to me. "The greater part of our happiness or misery depends on our dispositions and not on our circumstances."

"I mean, we all want you to like us here. You know, feel comfortable in these mountains."

"I like y'all," I say into the fire. I keep my eyes on the coals because I am too scared to look Zack in the face. I am afraid that I would get lost somewhere in his hazel-green eyes and not be able to find my breath.

He's not for me. He is these kids' hero. Yet... I glance over at him. He seems kind and trustworthy and- No! He's a man. He's capable of breaking my heart. Bending it, pulling it apart like silly putty...

There are some things in life the heart is not willing to risk.

Abruptly, I stand and put on my jacket. "Good night, Zack," I say. Then I leave him alone. I would like to think he has a surprised expression on his face, similar to the one Chef B had when I said I was leaving Atlanta. One that would clearly convey disappointment at my sudden decision to get up and leave.

I would like to think that.

I don't wait to see.

As I lie awake in my sleeping bag in the girls' tent with Rainy and Joy softly breathing beside me, my heart won't let me sleep. It reminds me of a pot on the stove, boiling water raging down the sides, splashing against the flames. If I could just turn off the flame, the boiling would subside and I could close my eyes.

I recall the nights I slept in my sleeping bag in my apartment in Atlanta-the nights before I made my trip to Grandpa's cabin. That final night before my move up north was lonely, one where I hoped that Vivaldi's music would summon sleep. I kept looking at the clock and watching the numbers bring in a new day, frustrated that I couldn't close my eyes, shut off my mind, and drift off. Now I sniff the sleeping bag to see if it has any aroma that reminds me of my apartment life. Perhaps a faint odor of fried calamari, cinnamon from a candle I often burned, or simply nostalgia.

I can't get comfortable, and the ground is hard. Turning, I see the outline of Joy's sleeping frame to the left of me and Rainy next to her. Rainy opens her mouth and lets out a snore. I think she'd be mortified if she found out she snores in her sleep.

Massaging my arms, I'm still able to feel Charlotte's fingers as they played against my scars. I think of her view of the stars- how she imagines that God takes each of her uttered prayers and displays them in the sky. Each prayer, a shining light, worthy to be strung in the heavens. I would like to peer into her journal and read what some of those hopes are in her young life. Miriam told me that while the children hope to be connected to their despondent parents, they wish for other things, too. Kids are kids. Charlotte probably wants to grow up to be a ballerina like I wanted to when I was small. Or maybe she dreams of something more lofty-being a physician or an astronaut. I should have asked her, I think. I need to ask more and assume less.

I turn over again, draw my knees to my chest, which I find is hard to do in the constraints of a sleeping bag. I unzip the bag and try again. Now when I breathe, there is no scent of calamari but only of the smoky night. My hair and skin are fragrant from the campfire. Listening, I hear no voices, only the sounds from nature.

I suppose even Zack has gone to his tent. I go over each detail of the brief but comfortable time spent talking with him as the fire blazed. I smile at how we connected. Even though we said little, there was this feeling between us. Jeannie would call it chemistry, but I'm not ready to name it.

He's not what I wished for.

The most remarkable part of the evening was one of the briefest moments. Darren talked to me. He did not yell or curse but actually acknowledged my scars and told me of his own. Sullen and angry Darren opened a little crack in his armor and let me see a hidden part, a section of himself. Tomorrow I'll probably wonder if I dreamed his words to me.

I study Rainy's sunglasses by the light of the moon. She's placed them on top of her backpack at the foot of her sleeping bag. Now they look just like a small object, but when she wears them and chews her gum, those glasses seem larger than life. Maybe that's one of the reasons sleep is so nourishing. When we sleep we remove all the masks we wear by day.

Zack is not what I wished for.

I rise up onto my elbows and watch the girls. Joy's curly hair looks like a halo around her pillow. Amazing that when we sleep, all of us look so vulnerable, like we can't help but be totally and completely lovable. Just like a photo taken in one second of time, an image captured on film that can be contained, held, and even framed. A smiling face locked in place so that it can't talk back, rant, confess, or lie. There were times I longed to be just a happy image in a photograph with Lucas.

On my birthday, I didn't watch the candles on my peach pie and chocolate cake and hope for something to happen between Zack and me. I wished for something else.

Peace. The word is there; it has always been there, in the Bible or on a sign posted to a kitchen door. Peace. I want peace deep inside my heart, lodged so deeply and firmly that no one can ever take it away. How sweet that would be.

But peace and anger can't coexist. One day I will let the anger go. One day I will no longer care about my scars. One day I will stop letting Lucas control me, because even though we are more than one hundred and fifty miles apart, I'm still drenched in anger at him.

I wonder how Jonas can understand the value of forgiveness and operate in it, while I, with my undergraduate degree and normally functioning brain, have not found out how to do it. Jonas, I think, you are lucky. In so many ways.

If I'd brought my journal along, I would turn on my flashlight and write. But I didn't dare pack my journal for fear the kids would confiscate it and read it aloud. I would never live that down. If that happened, I would have to leave town.

The crickets sing over the stillness of the mountain. Then I hear the familiar soothing voice-the sound I have grown accustomed to over these six months in the mountains. This owl's cry is loud and steady, like a heartbeat. I listen over all the other noises around me and imagine which tree he might be in. I wonder what he looks like, how his feathers ruffle as his voice plays out over the breezes-his symphony of evening peace. Does he know the owl from the woods around my cabin? Do they get together and share a rodent or two for dinner, or give each other high fives as they fly from treetop to treetop over the Smokies?

Just before I drift into sleep, I form a prayer to God. It is one of gratitude, the kind my own dad gives. I smile in the darkness, a smile only God sees. Somehow, here, far from my hometown, far away from the life I carefully created for myself in Atlanta, God has given me a gift, and its name is richer and sweeter than any frosted cake. I have been presented with hope.

And I have realized that hope is the necessary beginning. With it, I can hope to one day jump into that river pastors preach and write about. It has a short name, and yet it takes a lifetime to truly navigate this river we call Forgiveness. Why is it so hard, sometimes, to put your hand in God's?