The First Rule of Ten by Gay Hendricks and Tinker Lindsay

clueless than threatening.
    I was dying to know what they were saying. I spotted a second window-flap across the way, so I ducked out of sight and inched my way around the structure, doing my best to mimic Tank’s stealth when stalking a lizard. They were right by the opening, too close to risk taking a peek. I hunkered underneath to eavesdrop.
    Shotgun was talking. “You keep saying it’s not time yet, but when’s the time ever gonna come?” He had a high, raspy, three-pack-a-day voice.
    “You and I both know that God’s in charge of that,” said Thumbs. His low rumble betrayed no trace of the irritation I’d sensed—apparently he was used to dealing with impatient disciples. The cadence suggested some sort of foreign accent, but I couldn’t identify the origin.
    “That’s what’s got me wondering,” Shotgun whined.
    “What’s got you wondering, Roach?” His voice darkened.
    “Oh, so now I’m back to being Roach, hunh?” The whine tightened. “Just because I’m the only one with enough balls to come to you and ask you to your face—”
    A low growl made the hairs stand up on my arms. “Stop bumpin’ your gums and get to the point,” Thumbs snarled. His patience was proving paper-thin, as I’d suspected, but hapless Roach plowed on ahead.
    “The point is, I’m wondering—well, not just me, a bunch of us are wondering whether you’re getting kinda confused about where God leaves off and Eldon Monroe begins?”
    Oh, boy. This Roach needed to brush up on his survival skills. There was a moment of silence, then the creak of a chair, followed by the unmistakable slap of an open-handed blow across the face. With those paws, it probably felt like getting broadsided by a cast iron skillet. Roach’s yelp brought to my mind a whipped dog. Eldon Monroe thought so as well.
    “You little cur,” he snarled, the words a hostile burr, “don’t you dare talk shit to me like that.”
    Roach was breathing heavily through clenched teeth. I could hear the frantic hiss from outside.
    “Don’t call me that,” he whimpered.
    “I’ll call you a cur because that’s what you were when you came to me, a stupid lop, a chump nobody but me was willing to school. Is that what you want to go back to? The shoe?”
    It sounded like they had served time together. But where? What did ‘shoe’ refer to?
    “No.” Roach choked back a sob.
    “I’m trying to make you a man and you want to be someone else’s bitch? That’s your goal in life?”
    “No!” he moaned, louder this time.
    “I can’t hear you, Brother.”
    “NO!”
    “If you’re not Roach, who are you?”
    More heavy breathing. Finally, “I am Nehemiah.”
    “That’s right. And what are you, Nehemiah?” Calm again. Almost seductive.
    “A night watchman.”
    “A night watchman? Is that all you are?”
    “No.” As Nehemiah, this guy seemed to recover his confidence. “I’m a night watchman for God, Brother Eldon. I serve God. And I serve you.”
    At times like this, I am grateful I somehow learned to value self-discovery over blind obedience to authority. The Buddha himself said we shouldn’t believe his words without question—we must discover the truth for ourselves. “Be a lamp unto yourself,” he counseled his disciples. “Find your own way to liberation.”
    Brother Eldon saw things a little differently.
    “Obey your God, Nehemiah. Obey me. Go! Guard God’s Paradise!”
    I got a sudden urge to “find my own way” out of there, and quick. I scooted around the yurt and hoofed it back up the hill, moving as fast as I could without making any racket. I sprinted toward my wheels, only to slam to a halt, as if collared by the grip of dread. A man stood by my car, his rifle aimed directly at my head.
    There was no question of reaching for the Wilson, so I settled for a rapid risk assessment. My opponent was elderly, but built like a barrel. His hunting rifle was an old Marlin, probably from the 1940s. An excellent option for bringing