They have parked the car and just finished praying together. The young man looks at Elder Davis.
“So we’ll check this media referral and if no one is here, we’ll tract this street.”
The street they have come to is the outside edge of the snake pit—a two-mile area on the west side of Lake Avenue with high crime rates.
The young man opens his car door, and just as he emerges, a man with dreds on the sidewalk says, “Yo, what you want? Ain’t nothin going on here.” His face is hard, angry.
The young man walks toward him with hand out. “Hi. We’re ministers of Jesus Christ.”
The man steps back, smiles broadly, his shoulders relaxing. He shakes hands and fist bumps.
“Ah, man. You all Jesus people! Man! I thought you was an unmarked or the Feds.”
“Nah,” says the young man. “Just talking to people about Jesus Christ. We have a message if you have a few.”
“It’s all good, man. Me and Jesus, we’re all good. But yeah, y’all go work this neighborhood cuz, man, this neighborhood? This neighborhood needs some serious Jesus!”