Megyn Jones glanced over at the shady character for the fifth time and closed her eyes as she felt another nudge. Was it God, or just female compassion?

The man sat five tables away morosely nursing a coffee. His dark t-shirt and ripped up blue jeans were stained, and a pair of scuffed up work boots barely touched the floor. Greasy dark hair hung in his face and he looked as if he hadn't shaved in a few days. He looked every inch the bad-news biker dude, from the attitude to the tats running down his arms.

He needs Me.

The voice startled Megyn and she looked around but only saw Biker Dude still staring sullenly out the window of the small coffee shop. It must have been Him. Megyn was surprised she recognized the still, small voice. After all, she hadn't heard it since the accident eleven months ago.

She told herself that she'd moved past it. That she wasn't angry at God and had forgiven herself. She didn't have any bitterness. Nope. That had been buried with him. Megyn was doing well. She talked to her friends, and went to church activities. Tom was in a better place and she had accepted it as the will of the Father.

Witness to him.

Megyn frowned. But what if he takes it the wrong way and thinks I'm trying to flirt?

She could almost swear she heard a laugh.

Be still, and know that I am God.

Of course. How could she have been so stupid?

Megyn paid for her coffee and strode towards table #8. She smiled sweetly at Biker Dude. "Do you mind if I sit here?"

He looked up at her with a mixture of surprise and suspicion. "Your choice.

Megyn took the seat opposite him. "Thank you."

Alright God, now what?

She offered her hand. "I'm Megyn."

He shook it. "Jake."

"It's a beautiful evening, isn't it?"

Jake looked at her dubiously. "It's raining.

Megyn shrugged. "Without rain, nothing would live. God made everything with a purpose."

He looked at the cross around her neck. "You believe that?"

"Absolutely."

Jake's gaze slid to the table. A brief image of him sitting in a dark room with a gun to his head flashed through her mind. Then it was gone. She glanced at his dog tags and it came together. One: Jake was once in the military. Two: He displayed signs of depression.

"What branch of the military were you in?"

Jake slammed his cup down on the table and stared at Megyn. Finally, he spoke. "Why are you here?"

Megyn raised her eyebrows. "To get a coffee."

Jake gestured to the table. "No. Why are you here, talking to me?"

Megyn took a deep breath. "Because God told me to talk to you."

He snorted. "Right, God." Jake stood. "Well, you tell him that you've done your humanitarian project for the week." He turned and headed for the door.

"Jake."

He turned sharply. "What do you want, lady?"

"Don't do it."

"Don't do what?"

"Don't go home and commit suicide. Killing yourself won't fix anything."

His face paled and his eyes went wide. "How...."

"I know what it's like to lose someone you love. I can't imagine the things you've seen, but He can. He knows, and He offers you love and healing beyond what you could imagine."

Megyn pressed her lips together and prayed silently. Jake cursed at her. "Lady, I don't want anything to do with you or your God. Leave me alone!" He yanked open the door and slammed it on his way out.

Jake seethed as he stalked down the sidewalk. What right did she have to pretend she understood, to pretend she cared? She didn't; none of the good-for-nothings that he'd once fought to protect cared a lick about him.

Afghanistan; that God-forsaken country. All of his friends? Died right in front of him. Him? Medical discharge. Did that little heart on a piece of purple fabric mean anything? Not to him. He'd seen too much. Children, teens, blowing themselves up in the name of an all-powerful creator. Parents sending their toddlers into areas where they would be taken in by the Western Devils, only to detonate the bomb concealed under the child's clothing. Buddies ripped apart by grenades, gunfire, and machetes alike. Death, despair, these were companions to those who were stupid enough to believe they could make a difference. Like Asra.

Jake shook his head. He wouldn't let himself go there again. He would go through with his plan.

His shoes scraped along the sidewalk as he headed into one of the more run-down areas of Charlotte. In the fading dusk, he could make out a guy by the corner. The Asian kid nodded at him. "You up for somethin', man? Drugs.

Jake considered that for a moment. He could go that way. Overdose, fall asleep, never wake up. Not so bad.

So Jake bought enough and went on his way. Once in his apartment, he sat down and took a deep breath. He was ready for this. After taking all of the drugs, he laid back onto the dirty mattress. Man, was he high as a kite. The room started spinning and he found himself shaking uncontrollably. The dark bedroom exploded into a sea of light and sand. Sand. Sand? Sand! He sat up as best he could and looked around, bewildered at the flames, explosions, and gunfire. What the.....Oh crap, the village was being attacked by the Talib again!

But it wasn't again, it was the same as last time. The picture blurred as he stumbled forward. Why couldn't he move?

A hand closed over his arm and he turned. Asra's azure eyes gazed up at him, wide and insistent. Her chador was half on, half off, revealing her dark brown hair and beautiful face.

"You must come to the shelter," she said in her native Pashto dialect. "They will find out that you are American." She switched to English. "You come to bunker. Now!"

A volley of gunfire erupted to his left and patches of crimson blossomed over Asra's chador. He ducked, pulling her with him behind the building. He gently cradled her in his arms as she gasped and coughed up blood.

"Asra!" He pushed aside her scarf to reveal four bullet holes in her chest. She took his hand and guided it away from her wound. Her small fingers clasped his imploringly.

"Would you sing Isa Loves Me?"

He smiled wanly. Asra had been teaching the children of the village how to sing Jesus Loves Me in Pashto only a few days before. The song was simple and sweet, and her favorite. He nodded.

"Isa loves me this I know..."

Asra smiled and sang with him.

"For the Bible tells me so. Little ones to Him belong. They are weak but He is strong." Asra reached up and brushed a tear from Jake's face. The girl smiled slightly. "Yes, Isa loves me. Yes, Isa loves me. Yes, Isa loves me. The Bible tells me so." He finished and, going against tradition in that part of the world, kissed the sixteen-year-old on the forehead. She gasped once more, then went limp. She was gone.

The world disintegrated, sand coming up and brushing against his face, working it's way into him until every breath was of sand instead of air. It cushioned him. Buried him. Pressed against him until he couldn't breathe. But it was peaceful. He stopped breathing.

His eyes opened and he tried to sit up but a wave of nausea kept him down. Jake turned his head and barely made out the blurry letters of the clock. 4:23 AM. The overdose hadn't worked.

He rolled off of the bed and stumbled into the bathroom, where he retched up everything in his stomach. Then he collapsed onto the floor, shaking like a leaf. Asra's girlish voice drifted through his partial consciousness. Isa loves me this I know....... Isa. Jesus. Isa Masih. Jesus Christ.