Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

COUNTDOWN TO ZERO HOUR 16 HOURS AND 38 MINUTES

UNITED GRACE CHURCH served not only as a community center, but as the center of community for Waketa, Minnesota.

“You belong to each other, and you are responsible for each other. That is what community means. And that is what Waketa is about.”

The congregation nodded.

“We are always told that family is everything,” Reverend Michaels continued. “But family’s not just your blood. Family is your friends. Your neighbors. Family’s your coworkers. And family is everyone in this church today. We are family.”

In the last pew at the back of the small church, Steve Tostig listened without hearing.

If Reverend Michaels was responsible for safeguarding Waketa’s soul, Steve was responsible for protecting its body. He was the guy who’d be on the town’s postcard if there were one: tall, broad chest, flannel shirt, five-o’clock shadow. The type of guy who was popular in high school, mainly because he stood up to the bullies. The kind of person who you hope your child will one day end up with.

Steve sat alone in “widowers’ row,” as he’d taken to thinking of it, staring out the stained-glass windows at the cemetery down the hill. He’d brought carnations this time, blue ones. At least, the little sign on the bucket at the grocery store said they were carnations.

Claire Jean Tostig

1975–2023

Beloved teacher, daughter, wife, mother.

It wasn’t long enough, but it never is.

He hadn’t wanted that last part on there. It felt too… woo-woo. Too kumbaya and circle of life. Claire would have liked it. But to Steve, it should have said: It wasn’t long enough —period.

No acceptance, no meaning. Only injustice. Just sheer, unfair bullshit.

“You know,” continued the reverend, “I couldn’t help but notice the parking lot has a lot of open spots today.”

The sparse congregation mumbled in agreement.

“I’m not concerned,” he said. “People are at work. Kids are in school. And Good Friday, the day when we mark the Lord’s crucifixion… well, it’s not exactly a real crowd-pleaser.”

The congregation gave a collective chuckle.

“But you better show up early on Sunday,” he continued, wagging his finger. “Boy, that parking lot will be full then. Because on Easter, we celebrate! Sunday we will come together as a community in a moment of joy and light to declare as one: He lives! We live.”

Reverend Michaels paused. That perfect length of a pause that’s not taught in seminary but discovered Sunday after Sunday, season after season, year after year, as you feel out the needs of your flock. Those aching, human souls that once a week came to this place to ponder or discover or wrestle with or be reminded of the whys and hows and whats of existence.

“But you’re here today.”

He paused again, looking around the chapel, holding eye contact with members of his congregation. When his gaze reached the back of the church, Steve looked away. He had come in after the service started; he would slip out before it ended, and he would not be here on Sunday. Reverend Michaels knew Steve came only on the days when the congregation was light because that meant there wouldn’t be as many people asking him how he was doing and if he and his son, Matt, needed anything.

“You showed up today, ” said the reverend. “This day when our Savior was killed. This day when all hope seemed lost. This day of darkness when we had absolutely no assurance that the light would come again…”

He paused.

“You showed up.”

People nodded in agreement.

“You know, there’s a reason we come on…”

He trailed off, pausing again—but not for dramatic effect or to give time for reflection. He paused because they were all trying to figure out what that noise was. That distant rumble. A rumble that was growing louder with each passing moment.

The walls of United Grace began to shake. The floor beneath the congregation’s feet vibrated. Reverend Michaels looked down to the Communion chalice. The surface of the dark red wine rippled.

Suddenly a shadow passed quickly through the church as something flew low overhead. Everyone was immediately up and looking out the stained glass on the west side of the church. Reverend Michaels stayed where he was, three steps up on the altar, hands gripping the sides of the pulpit. From there, he was the only one with a view through the window above the stained glass. He alone saw clearly the enormous commercial airliner streaking low across the sky.

Moments later, the entire church shook in the boom .

Screams filled the room as the congregants clutched one another. A framed picture fell off the wall; glass shattered as it hit the floor. At the back of the church, a flash of light grabbed Reverend Michaels’s attention. It was the door opening.

The reverend watched Steve sprint through the door and across the parking lot to his truck. While everyone else cowered in the fear and confusion of the moment, Steve was already in action.

Joss Vance sat at her kitchen table a few miles away in a state of shock as hot coffee dripped from her fingers onto the morning paper. Her heart pounded with adrenaline as she looked around the room wondering what the hell that had been when suddenly—the lights flickered.

Joss looked up.

“No. No, no, no…” she whispered to no one but herself as the lights flickered again. But by then, Joss was already on her feet and moving.

She knew what was about to happen. She knew what it meant. And then, just as she’d expected—the power went out completely.