With each rise and fall of Dan's voice, the spiritual agitation grew, and the night wore on, hot and sweaty. The crowd pressed closer, mezmorized by the cadence and reverberations coming from the guitarist's mouth. Tom and Sheila hung toward the back, collection plates in hand, waiting to strike at the most opportune moment. Back at the van, Gail and Greg were jimmying something under the hood while Barbara listened intently, sucking hard on her smoke. Suddenly, Dan's words didn't make sense. A murmer rose through the crowd and grew to an undecipherable cacophony of speech Barbara had never heard. People wept. Hands were raised, forgiveness given, and finally the exhaused worshippers collapsed. Tom and Sheila struck with the collection plates, and Dan disappeared. As he ran up to the van with this guitar case, Barbara looked at him suspiciously: "What the HELL was THAT?" she said. "Don't ask. I don't know what it was, but let's get out of here..."