“It’s a bullseye. A target. So the Creator will recognize us.” Henning glanced at Christine. She was breathing softly, her head resting against the window, her features delicate in repose, as if they’d been sketched on her face rather than sculpted. “How come hers is a different color? Does it mean something?” “It’s a personal choice, like a signature. I do maroon and gold ’cause those were my high school colors.”
