He descended the steps, flanked by two burly men in headsets. He walked right up to her, and Martha had to step back. He smelled of expensive cologne and coffee. He leaned down, his face inches from her mother’s, and for a moment, Martha saw something in his eyes—not malice, but a fierce, unblinking certainty. He believed. That was the terrifying part. He absolutely, completely believed.

“You,” he said. “The woman in the chair. You’ve been sitting in that lie for eleven years. The Lord says tonight, the anointing breaks the yoke.”

He paced the stage, a panther in polished shoes. He told stories of tumors vanishing, of blind eyes popping open like window shades. He laughed—a sharp, sudden cackle that made the front row flinch and then laugh along, nervously.

“That’s the lie talking,” Copeland said, and he smiled again. “You can. The healing is already done. You just have to get up and walk into it.”

“In the name of Jesus,” he said, not loudly, but the microphone caught every syllable, “I command that crooked spine to straighten. I command the pain to go to the feet of Jesus. Stand up.”