A man trudges down the road, burden on his back-- a stone hand broken from what must have been a colossus, forefinger pointing forward over his shoulder. Every few minutes he has to set it down and catch his breath.

Then he hefts it up again and on he goes. 

He meets another man. 

“What’s that you’ve got?” the other man asks. 

“It’s the hand of Providence,” our man tells him. 

“Why are you carrying it?” asks the other. 

“If I don’t, who will?” says ours. 

And the other, “Where are you taking it?” 

And ours, “Wherever it points me.”