A Mighty Fortress Read Online Free PDF Page B

little realization that you might be feeling anxious. The heart beats faster, and your mind tries pulling you back down. And just like that, you’re on your back struggling for air. But only you’re standing, and no one knows what’s going on inside. I took a few deep breaths. I counted and heard Dr. J’s instruction in the back of my mind. It helped some, but the music was getting louder. Now they sang something about devils and the Prince of Darkness and battles. I didn’t want any more battles, and I didn’t care for a religion that seemed to be preparing itself for the final battle, the final slaughter—Armageddon.  
    See what I’ve seen, and you’d be just as content to go to the grave and slumber.
    I stepped outside for air. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a panic attack. I didn’t have one that day; it was just another tremor, the kind that reminds you the fault line is there, and you better be prepared for the big one. I stood outside breathing the humid air while the arcane melody inside continued, rattling the stained-glass windows along the wall. It was approaching noon and the upper nineties. You could feel it most days at noon and make a good guess whether it would storm that night. Though the sky was still blue, today felt like a stormy afternoon lay ahead.
    The music stopped, which meant it wouldn’t be long until the sermon started. So I was surprised to turn and see Pastor Evans approaching me from the entrance to the narthex. “Shouldn’t you be in there?” I asked.
    His eyes squinted from the sun and made his red cheeks look even fatter than usual as he smiled. “We have a guest preacher today. I just introduced him for the sermon.” He studied me closely. “You okay, Milo?”
    “I’m just getting some fresh air.” I tried to hide the fact I wasn’t breathing well.  
    “He’s preaching on the Parable of the Lost Sheep. You know it?”
    I shook my head. “I’m sorry, Pastor. Honestly, I was here hoping to see Rico. I’m a bit worried about him.”
    “He told me about the problems he was having. His gym’s being foreclosed?”
    I nodded. “It’s not that bad yet, but he’s behind.”
    He put his hand on my shoulder. “Why don’t you come inside? I think you’ll like our guest. He’s from Virginia, and has a lot of experience working with vets. He’s a vet himself. Afghanistan and Iraq.” He waited for my response.
    I tried peeking into the sanctuary, but the stained glass prevented that. I could hear the echo of a man’s voice inside but couldn’t understand a word he was saying. “I wish I could stay,” I lied. “I took a job that needs to get done today, and the day’s slipping away.”
    He nodded in agreement. “So, when can we get together for a beer? I hear they’re serving good stuff at that place you told me about down the street.”
    I knew the place he was talking about, right there in Seminole Heights—Southern Brewing, a supply store that sells everything a home brewer needs, with a bar featuring their own brews. I told him that would be great, and I’d give him a call soon. I really committed to doing it, but I still doubted it would happen.  
    He nodded. “I hope to hear from you.”
    I watched him walk back to the front of the church. I felt like I should follow him, but he disappeared.

    The line for brunch at the Refinery was already winding around the century-old bungalow and onto Florida Avenue. No parking spaces were open, so I exited the parking lot, made a right, and parked along a lawn down the side street.  
    Seminole Heights, which for at least a decade had been heralded as the up-and-coming neighborhood in Tampa, had many of the same Craftsman homes you’d find down in South Tampa for about half the price. While a few of its streets were well preserved, many others, including the one where Rico lived, were not. And while the real estate market in Seminole Heights may have disappointed locals who were hoping to see more