The Record Keeper (Murphy Shepherd, #3)

by Charles Martin

I’ve come to understand, no . . . to know . . . through the hundreds of people I’ve rescued, that nothing matters more than a name. It’s why it’s always been the first thing I’ve asked them. Because no matter what hell they’ve endured, a name can call them back out. A name establishes a record. Drives a stake in the ground. Shouts across the stratosphere, ‘I’m here! I matter! I’m not invisible!’ And while you may think very little of me, God himself actually thought me up. What you see in the lens of your eye, this thing we call ‘me,’ started in his mind. He actually took the time to think me up. Imagine.” Another leg tap. “God thought of me. Molded my bones like a potter. And if that’s true, and he thought of me, and then made me, and then named me, then there’s a record of my existence. Evidence that I’m real.” He was quiet a moment, slowly swirling his wine.