Fall of 1974
One morning, before Ricco could catch mom whispering her morning prayers, she slipped out of bed, careful not to disturb their strange housemates. She padded silently across the cold floorboards and into the dirty, dimly lit kitchen. There, she made herself a cup of tea, the steam rising and warming her hands. She settled at the wobbly kitchen table with her Bible open in front of her. Its pages, soft and fragile from frequent use, seemed to hold the answers she so desperately sought. She thumbed through them like a game of spiritual roulette. Hoping, praying for a sign, a verse, anything that might bring clarity to the swirling chaos in her mind. She needed something to give her direction.
And then she heard it—a voice. Soft, yet unmistakable.
