And, as David turned to look at the old man, the still, small voice—the one he had first heard in Brian’s hospital room—spoke to him.
And, as David turned to look at the old man, the still, small voice—the one he had first heard in Brian’s hospital room—spoke to him. As usual, its arrival came pretty much as a surprise, and the two words it spoke made no immediate sense.
The soap.
He heard the words as clearly as he had heard You’re praying already while he’d been sitting in the Viet Cong Lookout with his eyes closed.
The soap.
He looked into the left rear corner of the cell he was sharing with old Mr. White Hair. There was a toilet with no seat. Beside it was an ancient rust-stained porcelain sink. Sitting beside the righthand spigot was a green bar of what could only be Irish Spring soap.
