Thursday, February 23, 4:00 AM. Brewer.

I’m tired and fed up and I could really use a drink.

What have I done to deserve this, Lord? Haven’t we been through enough? If Amy’s adultery wasn’t enough, wasn’t last summer’s cancer scare enough? If that wasn’t enough, wasn’t the collapse of the world enough? If that wasn’t enough, weren’t the trials of the fall—the sicknesses and setbacks—enough? If they weren’t enough, wasn’t the decay of my wife’s faith enough?

Where are you? Do you want to be cruel, or have you just checked out?

I know what the right answer ought be. Even in this hell, you’re still doing the best thing for us. It may seem dark now, but there’s always light ahead.

But light ahead isn’t good enough. I need light here now.

I’m forty-five. My brain, my body is collapsing. Unless you give me a miracle, I will be dead in a few months. My horribly isolated family will be left even more alone, fatherless. The stability Amy so desperately needs will be destroyed, probably forever. Who knows what she may do?

You always do this. I try my best. I work, I love, I try to lead, try to provide, try to make things right. I try to believe, even when all the smart and sane people have long since given up. You’d think there’d be some kind of reward for that. Instead, I’m left floundering, looking like a fool, waiting for the one miracle that will prove that you’re there and you care about us.

Maybe you get some kind of kick out of seeing my family torn to shreds by your torments.

I know that’s not true. I’m sorry. I just don’t know what to think. I’m at the end of my rope. I’m past the end of my rope.

Please help us.