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weirdos?’’
    ‘‘You name ’em, I had ’em. Lots like you.’’
    ‘‘Like me how?’’
    ‘‘Newspeople. Journalists.’’
    ‘‘I’m not a journalist.’’
    His eyes narrowed. He was pretty sure she wasn’t one of them , and he’d been almost positive she was a writer or some such thing. Once, he had been so good at seeing these things. He was out of practice. Still, maybe she was lying, just trying to get him to trust her.
    Her smile returned. ‘‘Nope, I’m not a journalist. So what kind of weirdo am I?’’
    Jude felt as if Rumpelstiltskin was sitting in his room. No, that’s not my name . ‘‘Well, other than reporters,’’ he said, ‘‘there were UFO junkies, conspiracy freaks, New Agers.’’
    ‘‘None of the above.’’
    ‘‘Paranormal researcher, something like that?’’
    ‘‘Nope.’’
    He continued to look at Kristina, and suddenly everything dropped into place. The answer appeared on the markerboard of his mind, drawn in large red letters. ‘‘You’re dying,’’ he said.
    Kristina returned his gaze, looked to be deep in thought for a few moments. She scratched her forearm as she spoke. ‘‘Well, let’s just say I won’t be around very long,’’ she answered.
    ‘‘How long?’’ he asked, finding himself caring. A bit.
    ‘‘Long enough to get a few things done.’’
    His cynicism slid back into place, fueled by the buzz-saw headache. ‘‘Looking for your higher purpose, huh? Let me break it to you: there isn’t one.’’
    ‘‘Oh, there certainly is, Jude,’’ she said with a continued hint of familiarity that made him flinch. ‘‘Yours, for instance. Some people receive special gifts from God, and—’’
    He laughed. So that’s what this was. ‘‘You spent all this time tracking me down just so you could convert me, huh? I got some news for you: I ain’t buying.’’ If only this woman knew what her so-called God had done. To his mother. To him .
    She continued to stare at him, seemingly undaunted by his words. So he went on. ‘‘I know how this goes,’’ he said. ‘‘First, you’ll want to know what happens. Then, you’ll want to know why it happens. Then, you’ll end up mad at me because I don’t have any of the answers you want.’’
    ‘‘I saw you once on Sally Jesse or something,’’ she said, ignoring his comments.
    He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms in front of him. ‘‘Maybe. Yeah, I suppose. I was on a lot of those shows.’’
    ‘‘You were talking about the second time.’’
    The second time. Yes.

4
    LIGHTNING 16
Years Ago
    The second time Jude Allman died, he took a friend with him.
    As a teen, when the thoughts of most young men in Nebraska turned to girls and Cornhusker football, Jude’s thoughts turned to the forest. On weekends, he followed his feet down tree-lined paths, absorbing the crisp scent of pine on the whispered forest breezes.
    Jude made most of these excursions alone. But on this particular late summer day, when the next school year was closer than the last, he brought along Kevin Burkhart.
    Kevin, Jude thought, looked a lot like Barney Rubble. He was short and squat, with a thatch of blond hair growing from his head. Even Kevin’s eyes fit the part: wide and vacant, as if they couldn’t really focus on anything around him. But Kevin was one of Jude’s few close friends, and he also felt the siren call of the woods. In the wilderness they could hike for hours without speaking, losing themselves in the journey.
    The day started out bright and blue, pregnant with promise. Jude’s father dropped him off at Kevin’s house in town. The two of them shouldered packs (even though they were only going out for the day, they preferred taking along packs ‘‘just in case,’’ and a day hike could always be seen as conditioning for longer, multi-day excursions) and made their way to nearby Soldier Ridge Forest.
    Years later, after Jude had moved away from Bingham, Nebraska, he found