“But you’re going to be a carpenter like your father?”
“There’s a chance of it.”
“One word, Josh: rocks.”
“Rocks?”
“Look around. Rocks as far as the eye can see. Galilee is nothing but rocks, dirt, and more rocks. Be a stonemason like me and my father. We can build cities for the Romans.”
“Actually, I was thinking about saving mankind.”
“Forget that nonsense, Josh. Rocks, I tell you.”
Chapter 3
The angel will tell me nothing of what happened to my friends, of the twelve, of Maggie. All he’ll say is that they are dead and that I have to write my own version of the story. Oh, he’ll tell me useless angel stories—of how Gabriel disappeared once for sixty years and they found him on earth hiding in the body of a man named Miles Davis, or how Raphael snuck out of heaven to visit Satan and returned with something called a cell phone. (Evidently everyone has them in hell now.) He watches the television and when they show an earthquake or a tornado he’ll say, “I destroyed a city with one of those once. Mine was better.” I am awash in useless angel prattle, but about my own time I know nothing but what I saw. And when the television makes mention of Joshua, calling him by his Greek name, Raziel changes the channel before I can learn anything.
He never sleeps. He just watches me, watches the television, and eats. He never leaves the room.
Today, while searching for extra towels, I opened one of the drawers and there, beneath a plastic bag meant for laundry, I found a book: Holy Bible, it said on the cover. Thank the Lord I did not take the book from the drawer, but opened it with my back to the angel. There are chapters there that were in no Bible I know. I saw the names of Matthew and John, I saw Romans and Galatians—this is a book of my time.
“What are you doing?” the angel asked.