"Staring up at the white sky, Layla wrapped her arms around her little brother and whispered softly, almost as softly as the snowflakes that drifted peacefully against the black night, 'Pray with me, Frankie.'

Incredulous, Frankie peered up into his sister's face which shown with an inexplicable calm. 'What are we gonna pray for?' he queried, unsure what good a God could be when his vision was blocked by the solid mass of snowy clouds that lay between the earth and the heavens.

'We gonna pray for those people, the ones who turned us out. You and me, we're in the hands of Providence, and He tells us to pray for those who persecute us.'

Irritated, Frankie clenched his jaw in rebellion. 'I ain't gonna pray for those people,' he insisted. 'I want God to strike them down where they are.'

'Never say that!" Layla almost yelled at him, and Frankie's eyes widened in surprise. She softened her tone, 'If God strike them down, and He don't know them, then they go to the eternal fire. I may be angry with them, but I'd much rather they just learn to do good so they can stop hurting people. I don't want more people to get hurt.'

Frankie wanted to hit her, to make her take it back. How could she forgive those horrible people? How could she want any good for them? Finally looking down into his sister's face, he lost a bit of his anger. True, she could hardly move, sapped of strength by the cold, but she wore the most loving expression that he had ever seen, the face of an angel showing shadowed against the white snow.

'Even if we don't make it through, Frankie, you and I have known more love in our few years than most people know in their lifetimes. We have momma and daddy, Grandma Edith and our Aunties and Uncles. If we die here tonight in the cold, we've known the best part of life. I won't let a few angry people take that from me.'

Her last words fell softly on Frankie's ears, and they seemed to wrap him up like her arms which held him tightly. Even as he drifted into unconsciousness, there beside a falling down shed in the dead of winter, the words floated through what remained of his thoughts and warmed him from the inside. We've known the best part of life, Layla had said. And in his heart, Frankie knew she was right.

When he awoke the next morning, the first thing he recognized was that he no longer felt the warmth of Layla's arms. Next, he heard the voices nearby, and he opened his eyes to the sight of his momma's face.

"Just look at me, boy," she insisted. "Keep your eyes on your momma."

Frankie had no desire to look anywhere else, he felt so grateful to see her. After such a horrible night, nothing in the world could have been more beautiful than his mother's face, and she felt so hot that the contact with his snow-chilled skin almost burned him. Still, he wouldn't have left her arms for all the money in the world.

Only after his momma took him home, soaked his feet, and filled his belly did he find out the truth about Layla. Momma had tried to keep it from him until he had slept, but when she laid him in his bed, the memory of the cold suddenly hit him. Where had Layla been when he had awakened in the snow?

Creeping out of his mother's room and to the door of the children's room, Frankie pulled it open a crack and watched in horror as his Uncle Moses carried the motionless form of Layla into the cabin. Frankie's heart cracked in two. Though he tried to muffle his sobs, his momma turned immediately and saw his eye through the crevice of the door. His own sobs seemed to prime hers, and rushing to him, she sat there on the floor holding him in her arms for an eternity, mixing her tears with his own.

'Still,' Frankie informed me, a tear welling in his eye even now, fifty years later, 'my momma's love only convinced me more that Layla had been right. Losing her didn't change the fact that we had known the best part of life. I never forgot that, and that is why I do the things I do today.'

The author of this story wants her audience to know that Frankie has spent his life in loving his friends and neighbors. Not a man walks past his door with a need who doesn't find a helping hand, and Frankie prays every day for those who would do him wrong. Some of those very people have changed their ways because of Frankie's generosity. If only we all could follow his example."

Suddenly nervous, Marissa cast her eyes to the ground. As she had read, she had lost herself in the memory of the story, the sympathy and admiration she had felt for the man as she had listened, the awe that she had felt when she talked to the man's neighbors and heard of his generosity. Now that she remembered where she stood, however, she began to doubt that she had successfully portrayed the intensity of the story that she had related. Had she made a fool of herself with her attempt? Had she done justice to her subject's suffering?

The silence in the room must have denoted awkwardness at her weak attempt at writing - Marissa could think of no other explanation.

"I wish I could know him," Mario finally broke the silence, and Marissa reluctantly sought his face with her eyes. To her surprise, he looked troubled by something deep, something that she couldn't quite fathom.

Looking to Barbara to see if she could shed some light on Mario's troubled countenance, Marissa felt a marked shock to see Barbara holding Mario's handkerchief and dabbing at her eyes. Had Marissa lost herself so much in the story that she had missed an important occurrence in the room around her.

"What happened, Barbara?" Marissa stepped to her friend's side to provide whatever comfort she could.

Incredulous, Barbara turned her face to her new friend. "Are you serious?" she intoned almost irritably. "You might as well have brought out pictures of starving children if you wanted me to cry that hard."

"I'm sorry," Marissa offered sincerely. Somehow, she still failed to comprehend what had passed between herself and her friends. After a minute, Mario finally moved into the space before her so he could look her fully in the face.

"Marissa," he waited for her to look at him before continuing. When their eyes met, she swallowed at the intense look in his eyes. "That was amazing. I wanted to cry, but men aren't supposed to cry. Look at Barbara." He motioned over to the diminutive form sitting behind her desk.

"She looks mad. Why would she be mad? That doesn't make any sense."

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At this, Barbara laughed sardonically. "You have got to be the most clueless girl I have ever known!"

Trying not to pout, Marissa hunched into a dejected stance.

"Marissa, you are an amazing writer. I thought that the first installment would kill me because I couldn't take the suspense. But what you just read? The ending accomplished exactly what we hoped. How anyone could read that and remain unmoved I can't imagine."

Finally standing up, Barbara moved to grasp Marissa by the hands. "This just might work, Marissa. And though Mario and I can provide materials to print a paper, we need you to provide us with material to change people's minds."

Confused by the praise, Marissa looked first at Barbara and then at Mario.

"Get used to this," Barbara smiled. "When people start to read your material, you're going to have to endure lots of praise."

Mario laughed, "Hopefully she'll happen across a little savvy if she has to meet a room full of admirers. "

Elated despite the slight smudge of Mario's teasing, Marissa handed the hand-scrawled work to Barbara who neatly tucked it inside the portfolio she now carried with her every day. Since the evening had drawn near its ultimate demise, Marissa pressed her friends to excuse her and hurried from the office. As she rushed through the door, Barbara wrapped her up in a warm hug of affection, and Mario squeezed her hand in an expression that Marissa could only interpret as endearing. To her relief, she rounded the corner to Mr. Ellenwood's store just before the man closed for the day, and the added security she felt with his presence helped her calm her excited nerves.

The day had proven stimulating and lucrative. Not only had she succeeded in her purpose of writing a compelling story, she had also made it across the plaza without a run-in or confrontation. She began to wonder if Sam Lincoln had turned her paranoid, especially since she hadn't seen him after that night in the park over a week ago.

Reveling in the accomplishments of the day, Marissa waited until she heard the click of Mr. Ellenwood's key in the lock downstairs, then settled herself comfortably into her bed to watch the remaining September evening through her window on the plaza.

"You know she won't approve," Mario insisted as Barbara pulled out the typewriter from its hidden niche on the desk and turned to type in her ideas.

"Look," Barbara pressed. "I told her going in that I planned on including political material in the paper. You heard her. As long as I put it toward the back, she can't argue with its presence. I promise, I won't allow my father's political leanings to influence my choice of targets. I'm aiming at corruption here. Even if Marshall Crenshaw himself proved guilty of victimizing the weak and the poor, I would call him out and name his name. We have to link the crime with a criminal in some way, or people won't put the two together."

"She won't want to offend people, and you? Actually publishing a list of names and accusations? Marissa just might put her foot down," Mario contended.

With a sardonic glance, Barbara continued. "And what exactly would that entail with Marissa? She might pout a little, sigh a couple of times, but she won't protest too loudly. If we did things her way, we'd sit around for years waiting for everyone's 'heart to change.'"

"So, your plan is to just barrel over her?"

Standing, Barbara crossed to stare up at Mario where he leaned against her desk.

"I love Marissa. No one has a heart as big as Marissa's, but she's an insecure people-pleaser, completely inexperienced in real life. She won't pressure anyone, ever, at least not effectively, and sometimes pressure must be applied."

"You're not going to help her overcome her insecurities by contravening her wishes," Mario accused a little petulantly.

"Maybe I won't, but maybe I will. If she cares enough about this, then maybe she can come up with some rational reasons to stop what I've started. Maybe she can convince me, though I doubt it. Marissa is an idealist; in her world, our paper would magically transform people's opinions so that they see the light and hold hands and get along."

Somehow amused, Mario smirked down at his fiery companion, "And you don't believe that, I assume."

She leaned next to him on the desk, examining the lines of the chair before her meticulously as she spoke. "I'm a pragmatist. I agree wholeheartedly with her goals, but I think her methods are simplistic in dealing with real life." Barbara glanced up at him earnestly. "I will check every fact and know everything to be true before I print it, I'll have signed evidence ready if necessary to present against any accusation of slander. But we need to make this an effective tool to change the minds of the public. Otherwise, this paper is a waste of our time and energy."

For several seconds, Mario just stared at his friend, suddenly recognizing the increased gravity that her plans would heap on the project. A bevy of emotions competed with each other for supremacy in his mind. In her own way, she seemed as passionate as Marissa on the topic of changing hearts, though more cynical about the ease of that task and a bit more mercenary in regard to her methods. Mario couldn't help but admire this aspect of her character. As far as her pragmatism, he recognized both its value as a practical philosophy and its danger in running up against ethical barriers. Still, he had known Barbara for years, and he felt certain that some form of morality limited her utilitarian philosophy. Her compassion confirmed it.

He shifted his gaze to the floor, a sudden heaviness hanging in the air of the room.

"You realize," he posed, "that this will vitally change the nature of the publication to which Marissa offered her material? You know that we raise the stakes considerably if we try to take on the organized criminal elements in this town, even just ideologically?"

"I do," Barbara confirmed. "But I think that even Marissa, given the tone of the stories that she's providing us, would agree that things have to change."

"But would she sacrifice her safety for the change?"

Barbara shrugged nonchalantly, but Mario sensed the intensity of the thought behind her words. "You know Marissa. She'd probably sacrifice her life, not just her safety, if she could guarantee change, but we're not asking her to do that. For one, no one will ever know that she's involved. Unlike you and I, she's just a kid. And for another, even if someone found out about this, you and I are much more likely to prove interesting targets, seeing as I am the daughter of a prominent politician and you are the son of a well-respected college professor. Marissa, in the eyes of the world, is a nobody. I'll make sure she stays that way until danger has passed."

Mario considered for another moment. For the most part, Barbara's logic held, though even the slight risk to Marissa bothered him - Marissa seemed so oblivious in some ways. In his final calculations, though, he decided that Barbara had a firm grasp on both the dangers and the benefits of the choice they made. Despite himself, his thoughts hearkened back to his own life experience, the way his pop had uprooted the family and turned their lives into chaos just to avoid the prejudices that ignorant people laid upon them. For the Garners, life had come around from misery to contentment, but so many others would never know the same fate. Too many others would turn out like Marissa's Layla.

"I'm with you, Barbara," he finally conceded. "I agree to this, but I just might decide that I need to hang out around Marissa more often. Someone around her has to show some sense."

A smirk lit up Barbara's face, "Well, I'm sure you'd enjoy that, Mario, but do you think that's a good idea? I think that maybe the three of us should minimize contact in the public eye over the next month or so while this thing breaks the scandal barrier. We can still meet here, because that routine had been established beforehand, but I think that socially, we should forgo too much interaction for a while.

Surprised, Mario pondered the idea with a measure of displeasure. "Well, I will say that interferes with my scheme to endear myself to her as much as possible." He looked up with chagrin at his companion, afraid he had revealed too much.

"Don't worry; I knew," Barbara assured him, and he returned her smile a bit sheepishly. "But we'll have plenty of interaction down here, and pretty much every day. Don't you think that will make up for your attempts to artificially induce social encounters?"

Again, Mario smiled. "If she's willing to speak to us after this, then I imagine you're right."