Baptist parsonage | Cedar There was nowhere else to turn. She couldn’t think of anyplace. Anybody. Sweet tapped on the parsonage storm door. She waited, listened, snapped closed her jean jacket against the cold. After five o’clock on a wintry Tuesday evening, it was almost full dark, the temp dropping toward freezing. Behind her the street was empty, the Senior Citizens cooks and Heartland Home Health workers gone home now. No news vans. No reporters. She pulled open the storm door, knocked on the wooden inside door. It was obvious nobody was home, but she couldn’t make herself give it up. She had to get those kids out of that coal mine—tonight. She pounded on the wood. Where was Vicki anyway? The preacher’s wife was almost always here. Sweet rattled the metal storm door, let it fall to. She glanced at the empty church porch next door. Maybe Brother Oren was over there in the Pastor’s Study. She came down off the concrete steps and started around the house toward the Fellowship Hall entrance.
