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"Can you take a car home?" she asked. "Are you comfortable with that? With cars?"

"Of course." I was surprised she had asked. She usually acted imperiously. Did she think I was afraid? Cars were robots and never had accidents, or rather, almost never. Whatever had happened, it wouldn't happen twice.

She called for one, and I could not help but relish the trip through gorgeous curving streets lined with trees and gardens—new Port Harcourt.

*  *  *

And you, did your eyes see this city with pleasure? You had come here from the north, but you would have known its history. Centuries earlier, the sea had risen, and the city had to be moved inland bit by bit and rebuilt. Yet this changing world brought prosperity and more beauty than ever to Nigeria. Architecture marked by organic material rose up, gleaming windows surrounded by walls and roofs of intricate motifs on tiles and panels. I would never tire of the sight.

You—I can imagine because I have known others like you—fled from the scene of the crime that morning to your home, a lonely apartment, where you paced restless, waiting for an acknowledgment that never came, until it was time to go to work. On an ordinary day, you would spend the afternoon monitoring operations and checking schedules at the docks as ships arrived or left. Were they being loaded or unloaded well, and had robots encountered obstacles? The mere sight of a rat or the odd heft of shifted cargo could make the robots seek guidance. Did the contents match the manifests? These days, everyone seemed to be trying to smuggle something in or out.

It was dull work, mostly, but you enjoyed the sea and its moods, the drama of storms, the revel of sunshine, even the oppression of damp heat like an unpleasant but familiar hug.

Today, though, you would arrive acting as carefree as a young man with a happy childhood, and expected news from a coworker would make you stop short. Maryam was dead, the conscientious and well-liked woman you often worked with. In a freak accident, she had been struck by a car. You would gaze into your coworkers' eyes with feigned shock, perhaps share a brief embrace of solace, and speak of how fine she had been in her job and her life. But the sorrow on your face would be for you, knowing what you had done and why.

As for myself, Mercy, I still knew nothing of this, off in my own life, trying to avoid self-pity. I had been hurt, but I had survived. I would be fine. Then I discovered how simply leaving the car caused new pain, and Ngozi had to help me. In that moment, I understood how deeply blessed I was to still be alive, and this grace flowed through me like a wave breaking on a beach. Lord, direct my hands and feet to serve Thee in joy, for I must still have a purpose on this Earth!

I gazed at the building and garden in our compound as if they were a fresh gift: Tabitha House. Ngozi must have called ahead, because our four other members came out on the graceful, sinuous balconies on all three stories and sang a welcoming prayer of thanks. I joined in, my ribs aching when I breathed deep, and I added a verse to share my heartbreak for the woman who had died. The sisters of our house do many good things, and most of all we sing to the Lord.

They gave me mint tea and sympathetic smiles, and helped me shower, insisting on cool water, then tucked me into bed. They brought me lunch and cold compresses and sat with me until I dozed. I knew better than to argue that I deserved no such loving care, although the thought never left me. Truth clings like a burr.

When I awoke, I thought to hobble to the bathroom and look at my face in the mirror, and I recoiled at what I saw. My left eye was puffy, its lid and socket purplish, the eyeball bloodshot, my cheek scraped, my lips swollen and bruised.

With kind fussing, my sisters helped me downstairs for dinner, and we prayed for that woman, now officially declared dead. The meal was followed by an urgent house meeting at the dining room table.

"It can't have been an accident," Ngozi said. "We've been found out."

Publicly, as a women's lay Christian group, every Tabitha House not only helped its members in our needs, we helped other people, giving what we could, even if it was only song and a joyful presence. Few knew that we and other Tabitha Houses helped refugees escape from war, persecution, and organized crime. Some of them we arranged to disappear safely into other countries. A few I helped escape to space. And often, governments or lawbreakers were outraged to have these people snatched from their grasp.