Over the drone of Mara’s reading comes the soft, rhythmic slap of oars in the water, the chatter of birds, and the occasional splash of fish or maybe the Loch Whatever-Lake-This-Is Monster. No rumble of jets, no hum of cars, no clank and whistle of trains. The silence calms me, and at the same time leaves me feeling raw and exposed.

“Are you feeling better today?” Mara asks casually, as if I’ve had a slight cold instead of a cataclysmic emotional breakdown.


“I don’t know what happened last night. When I went to bed I felt totally calm.”


“That happened to me once while we were going to grief group. One night I was feeling at peace with what happened to John, and then the next day, boom! It was worse than ever. Pastor Ed told me that when the grief feels us letting go, it digs in its claws.”


“Yeah.” I stop rowing to rub an itch on my face with my sleeve. “I guess so.” I’m ready to drop the subject.


“He also said something about God giving us the worst sadness when he knows we’re strong enough to handle it. Sounds like a rationalization to me, but whatever. You might find it comforting.”


“Thanks.” I don’t feel particularly strong right now, and even if I did, I’d need that strength for the days to come. I have to fight for our future, not wallow in the past.


Near noon we stop again to rest, eat, and purify a canteen of drinking water. The midday sun is relentless, and even with my shades, my eyes hurt from squinting at the glint of rays off the water. But by two o’clock, it’s dipped below the blue-gray mountains that tower above us on both sides.


As we near the last bend in the lake before our destination, Mara stops reading and keeps an alert watch ahead. I envy her position in the stern, where she can see where we’re going.


Suddenly she points past me. “There it is!”


I turn to look. Sure enough, a dock and a large wooden building appear in the distance. “I hope Wendell warned them we might be coming, in case they have a shoot-intruders-on-sight policy.”


“Row faster,” she says. “The sooner they can see who we are, the better.”


I do my best, my shoulders and legs begging for mercy.


The first sounds we hear are the shouts of children. Incoherent at first, then I can make out words like “Boat!” and “Coming!”


“Geez, we were the only offspring left behind?” Mara wonders. “It’s like a Nickelodeon theme park up there.” She brings out the photo Ezra gave us. “Wow, the place has expanded since this picture was taken.”


I keep rowing, watching Mara smile and wave to the laughing, hollering kids. “Tell me you see our parents. Tell me we’re not entering some Lord of the Flies land with no adults.”


“I don’t see them yet.” She cranes her neck. “Oh—there’s Sophia.”


“Does she look upset?”


“She’s not smiling. Steer a little to your left or you’re gonna—” The boat bumps the dock hard. “Do that.”


“Thanks.” I use one of the oars to bring us to the long edge of the short dock. It’s the hardest parallel parking job ever.


The crowd of children parts for Sophia. “Welcome to Almost Heaven!” She crouches down and extends her hand to Mara. “Better late than never, right?”


My sister looks tempted to yank Sophia down into the lake. I climb out of the boat and let her decide.


Then my mother calls my name. I spin in the direction of her voice, the dock seeming to sway as I regain my land legs, then rush toward her. All I see is a blur of T-shirt and jeans before she hurls herself into my arms. “My baby!”


“It’s okay, we’re here.” I don’t know if my words are to soothe her or me, or which of us is holding on to the other harder. “Are you all right?”


A spasm of embrace is her only answer. She snakes out an arm and draws Mara in. “You’re both safe, you’re safe. Ohhh, I’ve been worried to death.” Mom rocks back and forth, then holds us at arm’s length for examination.


I barely recognize her. It’s not the casual clothes or her hair in a messy ponytail and her face with no makeup. It’s her utter desperation. Her eyes look like they did in the months after John died, so swollen from crying, she could barely open them.


“We didn’t mean to leave you,” she whispers close to Mara’s face. “They said you’d be meeting us here. They lied.”


“We got your message.” Mara throws a quick glance over her shoulder. I can see Sophia from the corner of my eye, emerging from the crowd of friendly but unfamiliar faces.


Mom’s words rush out in whisper. “They were taking away our phones at that general store before we got onboard. I sent the text and dropped my phone in the lake so they wouldn’t know.”


“Where’s Dad?” I ask her.


“He’s in the shop.” She’s no longer whispering, and her tone is bright instead of conspiratorial. “Probably couldn’t hear the ruckus of your arrival over the noise of the power saws.”


I look past her up the hill, where a dozen or so wooden buildings of all sizes are nestled against the forested mountainside. The lodge looms biggest and closest, about a hundred yards away, with a woodburnt sign reading A LMOST HEAV EN. Next to the words is a picture of a cross with a dove in descending flight.


“I’ll send someone to get your father.” Sophia lays a hand on my arm. “Let’s go into the lodge, just the four of us, to give thanks to God for your safe journey!”


“First I want to see Dad, alone.” I try to move forward, but she tightens her grip.


“He’ll meet us in the lodge.” Sophia’s smile is strained now, and two burly, decidedly less friendly guys loom behind her. I recognize one as her bodyguard Carter from her house. The goons don’t seem to be carrying, but there’s no way this group would be so far out in the wilderness without weapons.


“You probably have many questions,” she continues, “and answers are best absorbed on full stomachs.” Sophia lets go of me and pulls herself up to her five-and-a-half-feet height, intimidating even in jeans and a lumberjack shirt. “Then we’ll find a place for you to stay.”


That last word sounds all too permanent.

Sophia takes us to a cozy lounge adjacent to the lodge’s great room and offers me and Mara a seat on a cloth-covered couch with a wooden frame. I wonder if my father built it. Mom takes the chair farthest from Sophia and closest to the door. Sulfuric hostility sparks between them.

A blond lady in a denim apron sets a platter of sandwiches on the coffee table before us. Mara and I each take one, set it on a pottery-style saucer, then wait. We want to see Sophia eat hers first—and not because we feel polite.

On the way here, my sister and I decided to feign ignorance as much as possible, partly to protect Ezra, but also in case we have useful information that Sophia preferred we didn’t.

After we say a quick grace, I ask Sophia a question I already know the answer to, to test her honesty: “How long have you been building this village?”

“For years. It was a dream of my husband Gideon and me ever since we first married. See, we spent our honeymoon at a retreat center in Washington State called Holden Village. Many visitors stay for weeks or months, working as volunteers. Like here, there are no phones, TV, or Internet except for emergencies, and no roads that lead to cities.” Sophia’s gaze goes distant. “It was so peaceful, so godly. When we left, Gideon and I vowed that one day we would open our own refuge for the world-weary.”

Her words give me hope. “So this is just a retreat center? People can come and go whenever they want?”


“Not exactly. Almost Heaven is open only to families of those who helped build it.” Sophia takes a bite of sandwich (finally—I’m starving!) before continuing. “Your father, for example, has aided us immensely over the last several months.”


I glance at Mom for her reaction. Her eyes narrow at the way Sophia talks about Dad.


Mara speaks up. “So he knew the whole time that there was no Rush, that we were supposed to come here instead of heaven?”


“Come here to prepare for heaven.” Sophia spreads her arms. “Only away from the world can we be truly pure and free from sin, so that we’ll be ready when the Lord comes for us. And of course, as Scripture says, we know not the hour.”


Mara looks at Mom. “You knew about this too?”


Our mother rubs her face, looking exhausted and defeated, yet more like her old self than I’ve seen in a long time. “I am so very, very sorry we had to hide the full truth from you.”


“In other words, you lied.” Mara’s voice is hard as steel.


“It was part of our agreement,” Sophia answers. “No one under the age of eighteen could be trusted to know the truth. Children tend to talk.”


“We’re not children,” I snap at her. “Stop treating us like we are.”


Sophia doesn’t flinch. “If you’d known, would you have agreed to come? Would you have given up your future and your friends?”


“Of course not.”


“That proves my point. You couldn’t be trusted with the truth.”


My fist clenches, and I set down my sandwich before the ham and cheese can ooze between my fingers. “So instead, you tell kids that the world is ending? That’s supposed to make us feel better?”


“That the Lord loves you and wants to call you home? Yes, that should comfort believers of all ages. And those who don’t believe or who believe insufficiently”—she looks at Mara—“are welcome to scoff at the notion. Either way, it kept us safe and secure. The world never learned of our true plans. As far as they’re concerned, we were caught up unto heaven.”