Perhaps the first miracle was that she lived. The crowds keep coming. They arrive, all with their reasons, all with their doubts and certainties and everything in between. More and more every day, drawn by rumor and whisper and desperate wish. They come to Shaker Street to see eight-year-old Anabelle Vincent, who lies in a coma-like state--unable to move or speak. They come because a visitor experienced what seemed like a miracle and believed it happened because of Anabelle. Word spreads. There are more visitors, more supposed miracles, more stories on TV and the Internet. But is this the divine at work or something else? Eight-year-old Anabelle Vincent lies in a coma-like state. When a visitor experiences what seems like a miracle, word spreads. There are more visitors, more supposed miracles, more stories on TV and the Internet. But is this the divine at work or something else? Born and raised in the Los Angeles suburb of Whittier, California, Andrew Roe has had his fiction published in Tin House, One Story, the Sun, Glimmer Train, The Cincinnati Review, Slice, Pank, Avery Anthology, Gigantic, Freight Stories, Failbetter, the Good Men Project, and other literary magazines, as well as the anthologies Where Love Is Found and 24 Bar Blues. His nonfiction has appeared in the New York Times, San Francisco Chronicle, Salon.com, SF Weekly, San Francisco Bay Guardian, and elsewhere. An alumnus of the Squaw Valley Community of Writers and Tin House Writer's Workshop, he has received scholarships from the Getty Foundation and the San Francisco Foundation. Three of his short stories were performed by actors as part of the New Short Fiction Series, LA's longest running spoken word series. Dan Chaon selected his story "Job History" for the Wigleaf Top 50 Very Short Fictions of 2012, and he has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize multiple times, including a One Story nomination for his story "America's Finest City." He earned a bachelor of arts degree in English/creative writing from San Diego State University, and a master of arts degree in literature from San Francisco State University. For over twenty years, he has worked as a writer and editor in the publishing and software industries. A member of PEN Center USA, he currently lives in Oceanside, California, with his wife and three children. "They still there?" Mavis Morris asks her husband, Marcus, who for the past hour has been periodically checking the window, pinching the miniblinds open and closed with a well-honed disapproval like the nosey neighbor that he is. He's been spying (across the street and over one house, to the left) in growing disbelief--the spectacle continues. He doesn't even bother answering his wife's question this time, you're married this long and all it takes is a look, a significant enough arching of the eyebrows. The dopes, standing in the sun and in front of the white-turned-gray house and on down the block who knows how far, trying to convince themselves that they'll find whatever it is they think they're looking for in the room of that comatose little girl who he remembers sitting by herself on the sidewalk and who should just be left alone, is Marcus's take, not that anyone besides his wife is asking. It's getting ridiculous. But what can you do once people start believing something? Marcus returns to the couch--sacred site of naps and meals, late-afternoon periodical reading, and of course TV viewing--where Mavis finishes chewing a forkful of pasty mashed potatoes. Instant. What do you expect? "All those people," she starts in again. "I'm trying to understand." "I don't understand anything anymore," says Marcus, his final verdict, hoping that will be that, but probably not. The TV going, a game show, a new one that's actually a remake of an old one. Laughter, applause. People with nametags and bad haircuts are winnin...