William Hart is surfing the Internet. You can see things you dream of doing. You can do everything but touch—and it’s the touch that matters most. He is bored with virtual boys. He thinks of the preacher and wonders what his life would be like if his faith had been real—but his faith had been as virtual as the images he is staring at in the computer. Virtual faith. The Lord had not found him worthy.
He turns off his computer. He tells himself he will go out and have a glass of wine. That is what normal people do. He has envied normal people all his life. Tonight he will pretend to be one of them. He looks at his watch. It is just after five-thirty. He changes into a nicely pressed shirt. He likes to be neat when he goes out. As he walks out the door, Grace Delgado is talking to her doctor. He is looking at her files and shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Grace, I’m very sorry.”
Mister is driving home. He is repeating the word father over and over again. He parks the truck and sits for a minute. He thinks of Grace and Sam and wonders what their lives would be like if Sam had not died. He tosses his cell phone from one hand to the other. He calls Liz. When he hears her voice, he whispers, “I love you, I love you, I love you.”
There is no reason in the world why William Hart decides to pick this particular bar when there are ten or fifteen others in the same area. He randomly selects this bar. This one.