The cereal tastes like dry cardboard but she eats it without complaint because waste not, want not. Her mother sits across from her with dry eyes, carefully clipping the obituary from the paper. Her hair is perfectly coifed and styled, and Angela can't help but wonder how someone can look so well put together while they're falling apart.

She's sixteen and all she really knows is that it isn't fair. It's worse than when that boy from her class was killed by a drunk driver two years ago, because her father had been there to put a hand on her shoulder and assure her that it was all in God's plan and that there was a reason. Her father said she could trust Him... but that was before the heart attack. Who was she supposed to trust now? Who was going to tell her that, really, somehow, it all made sense? Her mother spent all her time arranging flowers and pressing clothes.

Her clothes are itchy and hot. She just wants to put on pajamas and crawl into bed, but the funeral is in half an hour. The rest of the family would be there soon, except for her sister because she wasn't allowed back from boarding school yet. When they sent her sister away, her mother had said that all her trouble-making would give her father a heart attack. And it had, maybe. Angela won't forgive her for this. She needs her Daddy, needs someone to believe in.

She sets her spoon down and stares into the milk. Maybe God is hiding in the bottom of the bowl. She hasn't been able to see Him in the clouds or the sun. He hasn't been hiding in dirty puddles or the cracks in between the tiles in the shower. She hasn't been able to see Him anywhere at all lately and she has begun to wonder if He was ever really there at all. She doesn't tell her mother that she's given up on God. She wishes she could crawl into bed with her mother late at night and ask if God is hiding in the closet or under the bed. She used to worry about monsters that way and it seems silly that God should be an invisible boogie man.

At the funeral, she feels nothing inside the church and when they go to the cemetery, she doesn't look toward heaven even once. She has to wonder, has to worry.

When it's all over and the night comes, Angela changes into her pajamas and thinks about getting a glass of milk, but her mother has laminated the obituary and hung it on the fridge. She traces over the picture of her father's smiling face with her index finger before turning away and leaving the kitchen.

She gets into bed and it's the first night in sixteen years that she doesn't say her prayers.

Maybe God is stuck to the bottom of her shoe. It doesn't hurt to hope, sometimes. And maybe she'll find Him in the morning.