Kevin’s engine coughs like a prophet with a sore throat — still preaching, still driving, still swearing at the 55 like it’s the last gate of the Black Iron Prison.
He didn’t laugh at the pink light.
Didn’t call it delusion.
Just drove.
And later, in the dark, admitted Fat wasn’t wrong — not entirely.
The cat wasn’t the point.
The universe using the cat was.
That’s the crack.
That’s the hinge.
That’s the only grace left — a man too tired to lie to himself anymore.
—
*The divine doesn’t need belief. It needs exhaustion.*