One Tuesday, Russell and his friends were eating lunch in the school cafeteria.
"What is this stuff?" Johnny asked, pushing clumps of an unidentifiable, brownish goulash around on his lunch tray with his fork.
The boys looked at one another, troubled. Russell's increasing references to death alarmed them. They were well aware of the school's policy toward any student making statements about suicide or homicide. Perhaps the administration should be warned and Russell protected.
Six days later, on a blustery November afternoon, Russell took with him Peter, Jimmy and Johnny, and led them up the back fire escape to the roof of the old Belk building on Barnes Street. From this vantage point, the boys could see all of the downtown as well as the newer, wealthier housing developments to the west.
Neither Peter, Jimmy nor Johnny knew what to say, so they remained silent.
Russell climbed up on the roof's ledge, balancing himself against the wind.
"Come, Lord God," Russell prayed aloud, his arms raised skyward. "Fill us with Your Spirit. Show us Your glory." He teetered sideways with a blast of wind, looking as if he might fall.
"Grab him," Peter commanded, rushing toward the ledge with Jimmy and Johnny in close pursuit.
Before they could reach Russell, however, another gust of wind swirled a dense, low-lying cloud across the rooftop, enveloping the boys in a milky, translucent, whiteness. Disoriented, Peter tripped on an exposed pipe, sprawling headlong to the roof's surface with his two friends on top of him. Untangling quickly, the boys refocused their attention on Russell. He was facing them now from his precarious perch, his arms still lifted heavenward. Draped in the cloud's luminescence, he looked to be speaking with someone beside him.
"Maybe we ought to just get out of here," said Peter. He was terrified at what was happening, wishing he were far away.
"God wants us to be continually listening to and obeying Him," Russell called from within the passing cloud. And then, the cloud was gone.
As frightened as the boys were, they did keep the incident to themselves, arguing with each other as to why Russell had become so fixated on death.
As they rounded the front of the building, they met their nine other friends who were surrounded by a group of people. Among the people were four seminary students questioning and disputing with them. When the crowd saw Russell, his face still glistening from the cloud's dampness, they ran to him and greeted him.
"What's everybody arguing about?" Russell asked.
The father had some trouble corralling his son, who was flipping the dials on parking meters. Clinton Suggs wrestled the boy over to where Russell stood. As soon as the boy saw Russell, he squirmed and fought to get away. Clinton held him down on the ground.
"How long has he been like this?" Russell asked.
Clinton Suggs began to cry. "I'm not a good father and I don't go to church. But I do believe God can heal my boy. I do. Oh, Jesus, help me to believe you want to heal my son." He hugged the writhing youth tightly to chest, continuing to pray.
Clinton confessed his shortcomings as a dad, then asked for a chance to start again. The boy convulsed within his father's crushing embrace, then went limp.
They drove over to Parkwood Mall, where they sat in the food court to talk.
Frustrated, Peter stormed off, throwing his half-filled milkshake angrily into a nearby trashcan. The others followed, leaving Russell alone to ponder his future.
They wouldn't answer him though, because they were arguing with each other as to who was the most influential and important in the increasingly popular band of twelve.
He ran and scooped up one of the children in his arms. "A true believer welcomes and accepts all people, even the ones least desirable. Believers are not exterminators. We don't boycott and protest against others. We take their hand and lead them to transformation in the Kingdom of God." He set down the child, who scurried off to find his mother.
A group of veiled, Muslim women entered the store, grabbed a cart and headed off down an aisle.