West Virginia, 1938: Midnight sky is subtly, then intensely, electrified red. Bands of quivering light thread between the Appalachians. People run into the street—robeless, barefoot. They fall on their knees and confess their sins.
“Fire sent to consume us!,” Ma screams through the crimson-bright house, “Wake up! Pray!”
Opal’s weak legs can’t raise her from bed but she knots her hands, prays harder than anyone. She knows God’s been after her for years. Her polio, penance for those men with moss-soft beards, their cigar-coal smell, the remembrance of which, even now, draws her mind from the solitary work of purity.
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