Nancy has always been a bit of a misfit, a dreamer whose dreams don’t always translate into the day to day world. She thought the others would love the wild green of this spot, the way the trees lay jagged against the sky, how God lived in the very breeze, the smell of the dusty weeds. But the girls complained of fire ants and how the brambles caught their hems and the way no one could find a decent place to sit, even though they had brought quilts, checkered tablecloths to lay upon the ground. Their picnic baskets were loaded with Southern delicacies–fried chicken, potato salad, buttermilk pie. But no one felt like eating. Nancy had mussed it again. Nancy and her wild imagination. Nancy ignored their sullenness. She knew this was a holy place, even if the others couldn’t see it.