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the gun didn’t work. It fired, and then it didn’t fire, and then it fired again for the final shot. Anyone who
knows anything about firearms will tell you that a 9mm handgun cannot misfire in the way that gun did. But
at the crime scene the police had drawn little chalk circles all over the driveway, all with spent shell casings
from the shots Abel fired, and then these four bullets, intact, from when he was standing over my mom—
nobody knows why.
My mom’s total hospital bill came to 50,000 rand. I paid it the day we left. For four days we’d been in the
hospital, family members visiting, talking and hanging out, laughing and crying. As we packed up her things to
leave, I was going on about how insane the whole week had been.
“You’re lucky to be alive,” I told her. “I still can’t believe you didn’t have any health insurance.”
“Oh but I do have insurance,” she said.
“You do?”
“Yes. Jesus.”
“Jesus?”
“Jesus.”
“Jesus is your health insurance?”
“If God is with me, who can be against me?”
“Okay, Mom.”
“Trevor, I prayed. I told you I prayed. I don’t pray for nothing.”
“You know,” I said, “for once I cannot argue with you. The gun, the bullets—I can’t explain any of it. So
I’ll give you that much.” Then I couldn’t resist teasing her with one last little jab. “But where was your Jesus to
pay your hospital bill, hmm? I know for a fact that He didn’t pay that.”
She smiled and said, “You’re right. He didn’t. But He blessed me with the son who did.”