Loren Matthews turned from where he leaned on the rail of the Mary Anne to face Travis, who stood beside him. Both men had been gazing out past the harbor to the open sea, discussing the challenge that lay before The Twelve. The deep blue sky overhead seemed hard enough to scratch a match on. The water in the harbor was a bit choppy as boats plied their way in and out. The gulls circled, uttering their harsh cries, and as the cook, Oscar Blevins, threw the garbage over the side, they fell on it voraciously. Loren watched this gloomily and shook his salt-and-pepper hair. “I don’t know why I should feel so bad. It’s a good thing, mission work.” “Yes, it is.” Travis was wearing a pair of faded blue jeans and a light blue short-sleeved shirt that exposed the tan of his upper arms. Turning to face the older man, he said, “It’ll be all right, Mr. Matthews. I believe God’s in it.” “Do you?” “Why, of course I do.
