[[{“value”:” By Sean Dietrich It was a Wednesday. I know this because on Wednesdays the Baptist church had family suppers. And although I wasn’t exactly a faithful Sunday churchgoer, I was a devout mid-week supper-eater. That night, I stood in line behind a girl, holding my plate. She was funny. She had so much personality she hummed like a neon light. Later, I sat beside her during service. That week, there was an out-of-town preacher. The kind with big hair, sweat rags, and nice shoes. He invited people to walk the aisle to get born again. My pal, Craig,—who lost his religion every football season—recommitted for his thirtieth time. He said he felt something in the air that night. I did too. When service let out, the girl wasn’t ready to go home. Neither was I. So, I suggested we drive. She liked the idea—though I’ll never know why. I pointed my vehicle east, we headed for nowhere, traveling as slow as my engine would run. The miles of pines made her more chatty. She propped her feet on my dashboard and let the words roll. She talked about things. About how she saw the world, about her favorite kind of mustard, about religion, and the proper way to eat fried chicken. I gave one-syllable responses because I didn’t want to interrupt. She had a voice that sounded like Escambia County in June. By the time we landed in Port Saint Joe, her one-sided conversation had faded to a stop....
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