Across the street from Freddie Henderson’s house of miracles, the Watcher leaned against a telephone post, the inside of the little room alive in his mind. “My, my, my,” he chuckled, relieved to have his feet once again on earth. “You go, girl.”
He didn’t move. He’d seen Ms. Willingdon, as she insisted on being called, in action many times before. Somehow, she always managed to escape. There was that one time in South Carolina when he seriously contemplated doing a cavalry, but in the end she’d come flying out of the Baptist church as though the Big D himself was biting her gluteus maximus.
Folks don’t like strangers tampering with their miracles.
