Adoration

The monstrance with the little white wafer in its center had not moved, he was sure of that. He felt numbness creeping into his knees, legs, and lower back, which meant he certainly had not moved. A shuffling, scraping behind him broke his concentration, and he turned his head slightly. The heap of disheveled, filthy rags had adjusted its position in the back pew, and moments later the snoring resumed.

Fr. Gabriel exhaled slowly and ran a thumbnail over his mustache. No, he was positive the monstrance had remained stationary. He checked his phone- nearly 2 AM. Almost 3 hours, kneeling and silent, before his Lord. The old church was peaceful apart from his homeless companion, a mercy considering the thousands of hours he spent in the early watches, listening to bodily voices praise and berate him, sometimes simultaneously.

His eyes shut despite his determination to fight the reflex. When he opened them, the little white wafer was no longer white, but crimson. The church was large, and from where he knelt and with his glasses pocketed, he could not be certain, but it seemed as though the host-- the body, blood, soul, and divinity of the God who let Moses wander in the desert and tested Job so harshly-- was changing more than its color. Indeed, the circle was becoming pointed at the bottom, and the curves were flattening, forming a heart shape that resembled a child's drawing on a Valentine's Day card, smothered in glue and glitter and fragile innocence.

Fr. Cassian had taught him that trick, taught him to carefully break the round host into the shape of a heart. That was years before he could feel it, warm and beating, after reciting the words of consecration.

The heart-shaped host stared at him, stared through him, and into him all at once. He had never been hunting but had heard stories of men stalked by big cats or other predators. They all shared the same unsettling experience of feeling watched, of knowing that they were not alone and that something was studying them, making the type of crude calculations of stealth and power that no man could counter.

He knew that unsettling, queasy feeling in the gut, as if he had swallowed hot castor oil with a chaser of bugs. Yet that sensation rarely visited him in the church, in prayer, or at Holy Mass, regardless of what God or the Enemy said or did during that time. These days, his innards turned more frequently at witnessing the callousness of his fellow mortals than at any supernatural occurrences.

"Sacred Heart of Jesus, I trust in you," he spoke into the silence.

"Sacred Heart of Jesus, I trust in you." He heard a "lub-dub" that came softly to the ears on his head and as a thunderclap to those of his spirit.

"Sacred Heart of Jesus, I trust in you," he finished, feeling hot tears fill his eyes. The heart in the monstrance did not move but gazed at him with a holy and terrible weight.

"Acrid heart, acrid heart, acrid heart, I lust lust lust in yoooouuuuuuuu..."

The voice was the absence of sound, like the moment before a gun fires or a firework explodes—the silence between a train's whistle and a dog's bark, yet clamorous and skittering like marbles dropped down wooden stairs or tin cans blown about in the wind. It came with weight, a bitter and crushing force, dark and hunting like the Leviathan concealed in the abyss.

Shuffling behind him caused him to turn so forcefully at the hips that he nearly lost his balance. The homeless person (without his glasses on, Gabriel could not be sure what gender his sole companion was) sat up, rubbing their face with their hands.

"Padre...hey, Padre" he croaked.

"I beg your pardon, but I'm trying to pray," he said calmly, nodding in the direction of the monstrance.

"Well, it's awful goddamned loud, I'd say. Keep it down, this is one of the last decent churches to bunk in, and I don't appreciate the disturbance. Got that, padre?"

Gabriel blinked at the man and fetched his glasses out of his cassock pocket. He put them on and rose, too quickly, and he felt the pins and needles pricking his legs.

"I was just leaving. I'm sorry for disturbing you. Please forgive me." The vagrant grunted at him, and Gabriel turned to exit through a side door, avoiding the main door and the route he would have to take to use it —right past the disgruntled delinquent.

"Male hari."

Fr. Gabriel stopped. His intestines churned, full of hot, bubbling liquid. Without thinking or knowing he did so, he slipped his right hand into his pocket, found the large crucifix on his Rosary, and squeezed it.

"I beg your pardon?" he said. In the big church, the two men were a fair distance apart, and Gabriel hoped the vagrant was too far away, too tired, or too inebriated to hear his voice quavering.

"I said, you'd best hurry. Something wrong with you, padre? You look about ready to..."

"Don't call me padre, please. I...I don't...do that. I don't do that anymore." Years of psychological training and discerning the difference between mental illness and authentic demonic activity alerted Gabriel immediately to the tension in the homeless man's body. He smelled tobacco- not a burning cigarette or even a pipe, but raw, musty tobacco- and began slowly backing toward the door without breaking eye contact with the man.

"You don't do what anymore, eh? You one of those priests, padre? You one of those sick pedo padres poking altar boys in the pew?"

Fr. Gabriel had been awake over thirty hours and had not eaten more than black coffee and toast for twice as long. The fasting and late-night prayer session could be compounding, skewing his senses and making reality blurry. He considered these things as he backed closer to the door, just as he considered the perfume bottle in his left pocket filled with a mixture of Holy Water and a drop or two of mysterious but fragrant oil that had been leaking from the tomb of a long-dead saint.

The man in the pew made as if to stand up. Fr. Gabriel stretched an arm out behind him, probing for the door yet never breaking eye contact with his adversary.

"The Baptists are right- God does hate fags, padre. He hates a lot of things. Abortions, fornicators, and the eating of the cloven-footed animals, and especially suicides. Especially them."

Fr. Gabriel began to recite a prayer to St. Michael the Archangel while fishing out his holy water from his cassock. The man laughed, a sound like tin cans in the wind.

"The fuck is that, padre? Gotta get close enough to use that, ya know. Real good and close." The man in the rear pew was perhaps one hundred feet from Gabriel, but it felt like he was reaching out an invisible hand, grasping at him so desperately he swore he could feel the air around him being disturbed.

Fr. Gabriel's hand closed on the crash-bar, and he stumbled out into the night. The door closed slowly and silently, and he stared at the man sitting statue-like in the last pew. He waited in the gap of time, in the gap between the door and its frame, yet nothing happened. No discordant chortle, no screeching of bats or creatures of the night. Only a faint "click" as the door latched, shutting him out of the church. He waited a moment longer, then spritzed his right index finger with the contents of the bottle and made the Sign of the Cross.

"Deliver me, O God. Take, Lord, and receive all."

---

Lecture

He turned the cold-water faucet on and watched a weak trickle splash into the sink basin. He sighed and looked into the mirror. The fluorescent lights and mint-green tile did him no favors. His eyes were bloodshot and watery, and though he had the good fortune never to develop dark circles around them, their absence aroused suspicions that he was hungover rather than sleep deprived. The two days of beard growth only added to the whispers about what the adjunct professor — who never accepted invitations to lunch and always carried a crucifix in his comically large leather duffel bag — got up to while not teaching at Four Oaks Community College.

Gabriel cupped his hands and waited for the pitiful stream of water to fill them. He doused his face with the cold water, pressing his fingertips lightly on his eyelids. His eyes burned beneath them as if he were caught in the smoke of a fire. Opening his bag, he removed eye drops and one of the three Starbucks Triple Shot drinks. He dripped the eye drops into both eyes with one hand and cracked the can open with the other. He tossed the small plastic bottle back into the main compartment of the aged brown leather bag, where it landed next to a stiff, white collar. Spinning the crank on the crooked paper towel holder produced nothing, and he wiped his wet hands on the backs of his legs.

He entered the classroom and flicked the set of light switches. He noted the dark plastic covers concealing burned-out lights. The room was not his, but a shared classroom used for adjunct professors, who the college felt did not require anything so permanent or comfortable as a private office. Gabriel was unbothered by this, as he was unbothered by most inconveniences — his warm Triple Shot, for example — but what did frustrate him was seeing his crucifix removed from the wall and placed face-down on the desk, again. She would never admit to it, but Gabriel knew it was the woman who taught Philosophy 101. They had met briefly at an introductory meeting for adjuncts, and she immediately engaged him in a conversation that was as friendly as two cats circling and spitting at one another in an alley. She had informed him that she was androgenous and a practitioner of Wicca, two qualities he was capable of deducing with minimal effort. Her hair was dyed with henna, her nails were painted black, and she wore various rings on most of her fingers. She dressed in black and violets, always with a shawl of some description draped around her shoulders. Some of Gabriel's students fondly described her as belonging more at Hogwarts than Four Oaks. Yet it wasn't her religious choices or Addam's Family attire, or even her tampering with his personal belongings, that caused him to keep his distance from her. She had a demon attached to her. Whether by her intention or mistake or perhaps assigned to her by another practitioner of darker, more sinister arts, its presence oppressed his soul and grated at his senses. He had considered marking the classroom doorframe with the blessed chalk he kept in his bag or lining the threshold with blessed salt, but he knew that would provoke the demon, and that would be unfair to do to someone who had not consented to intervention. Instead, he added her name to the list of hundreds he prayed and fasted for, and offered the rest to God to sort out.

He replaced the crucifix and started the Gregorian chant playlist stored on his phone. He knew both things aggravated the demon, and potentially aggravated some of his students, but these were necessary precautions and protection for himself. They were minimal compared to other methods or practices. Still, he insisted on their presence in the musty classroom at Four Oaks, as he had at the previous community college he taught at, in his tiny studio apartment, and anywhere else he had even a shred of authority over.

He turned the chant down as the first students entered. He smiled and nodded at them, watching to see if any would sit beneath the burned-out light fixtures. The course Mysticism Through the Ages was a gift from the dean of Humanities, a trade-off for teaching Latin and Comparative Religion courses. He struggled to teach the rudimentary Latin course, despite being gifted in both reading and writing it. He had always been the one to help the newer brothers with learning their prayers, but memorizing sounds was far easier than learning the language those sounds comprised. Comparative Religion was simply a cross he bore to earn a wage and acquire modest health insurance, because what was there to compare to Holy Mother Church? How could a Dalai Llama stack up against the likes of John of the Cross? On God's abacus, how could you pit the likes of John Paul the Great against Joseph Smith?

Mysticism through the Ages was a two-credit course, and Gabriel preferred essays to multiple-choice tests. A lack of traditional homework and testing attracted more curious, attentive students. However, there were always a few whose attendance was sporadic, no doubt hoping for an easy C or perhaps a B with minimal effort. Grades did not concern him, and no one in administration cared how a student at Four Oaks Community College fared in Mysticism Through the Ages, and so he was free in attempting to reach their souls as well as their minds.

Gabriel began writing on the dry-erase board, its once-glossy surface now dulled and marked with faint ghosts of colored markers. He turned to face the class, noting the young man sitting beneath the darkened plastic light cover. He thought his name was Biblical- Mark or perhaps Matthew. Maybe Marcus? Gabriel had memorized expansive portions of Scripture, the Catechism, and the writings of particular saints. He had committed much of his breviary to memory (though it travelled with him in his leather bag). He effortlessly memorized lists of Latin vocabulary words, yet his students' names —indeed, most people's names —were a weak point. It was a subtle form of pride, he knew, not taking the time to remember names. It was the sort of thing people did for years without ever considering it a sin, but if the road to Hell was paved with good intentions, the mortar was unconsidered habits.

He would speak with Marcus-Mark-Matthew after class.

"Who has heard of the Dark Night of the Soul?" he asked, gesturing to the words written on the board in black marker. Several students raised their hands. "Anyone care to explain it? Take a shot, there's no shame in guessing."

"I heard when Mother Teresa died, her journals said basically her whole life was a Dark Night of the Soul," a girl said. Gabriel nodded.

"That is true. And it is a great mystery of the interior life how someone like Mother Teresa of Calcutta could have endured something as trying as the Dark Night for so long. Anyone else? Anything to add?"

"My aunt said my uncle went through a Dark Night after he came back from Afghanistan. He was super depressed, drinking a lot. He didn't talk to anyone, not even my aunt, for like, years." Gabriel nodded slowly.

"That is an excellent anecdote, thank you, and it demonstrates how blurred the lines between spiritual and corporeal events can be. Your uncle likely was suffering from a complex combination of PTSD and depression, with potentially other aggravating factors. Alcohol is a central nervous system depressant and, when consumed chronically, may aggravate preexisting mental health conditions or mimic their presentation. In such cases, what appears to be a spiritual crisis may be primarily psychological. But when no such factors are present—when no trauma or pathology can be identified—and yet the soul finds itself stripped of consolation, we begin to approach what St. John of the Cross described."

He paused to turn the volume down on his phone a smidge, glancing at the crucifix as he did.

"Many people have heard of the term, but few know its origins. John of the Cross is one of the most significant figures in Christian mysticism, and it is he who first coined the term." Gabriel grabbed the marker and wrote two terms on the board.

"The Dark Night of the Senses, what does this sound like?" The air above his students' heads was vacant of hands. "Think about this within the context of the Three Stages of the Interior Life we talked about last lecture. Where do you think one would expect to experience a Dark Night?"

"Well, not at the beginning?" a student offered.

"Not typically, no. Any guesses why that might be?"

"It sounds hard or...scary..." another said.

"It is, very much so. While this is speculation, it seems likely that an experience like the Dark Night in the beginning stages of the soul's journey would be too great a burden to bear. It could break their faith and trust in God. The fact is, this happens to many people before they even reach their first Dark Night, but that's another lecture for another day. So, the Dark Night of the Sense. This is the experience of stripping, or purging, the soul of attachments to the physical or emotional consolations experienced during prayer or in other moments."

"Is that like an ego death kind of thing?" someone asked.

"Not exactly, no. There are similarities to the Ego Death common in the Buddhist tradition, but they are thin. Don't get me started on the Ego Death described by proponents of psychedelics; Professor Leary is who you'd want to take that up with." The reference soared over their heads, but he pushed on without a pause.

"In the early stages of the soul's development, God grants many consolations, or good feelings and experiences, that help sustain and encourage the habit of prayer. But just as with any maturing relationship, there must come a point where we commit for a greater reason. The honeymoon phase cannot last forever, and it shouldn't. Think of the Dark Night of the Senses as a kind of end of the honeymoon phase of one's relationship with God." He paused to let the description and its implications sink in.

"Now, we'll read a bit of John's own words." Gabriel removed a scuffed and scratched Kindle from his bag and read a brief passage. He then handed it to a student, who read until he stopped to clarify or add something. This continued, and Gabriel was pleased to see an organic conversation forming around the Carmelite's work. While they had no real idea or appreciation for John or Teresa, it was a blessing to see his spiritual brother and sister alive in some sense in this musty, poorly lit classroom centuries later.

His phone buzzed, alerting him that two minutes remained of the class period.

"Ok everyone, that's going to wrap this up. I really appreciate the participation and input, please read up on the Dark Night of the Senses and we'll discuss that next time. Have a good evening."

Gabriel positioned himself close to the door, but not close enough to appear to be waiting for any particular student. As Marcus-Matthew-Mark came near, Gabriel cleared his throat and made eye contact with the young man.

"What did you think of all that?" Gabriel asked, not venturing to guess at his name. He could see the boy was troubled, and likely did not realize it himself. He did not want to add to his burdens by revealing he did not know his name.

"Uhh...it was interesting. I'd never heard of any of that stuff before."

"You're in good company; most people haven't. Forgive me if this sounds intrusive, but is that a Miraculous Medal you're wearing?" The young man looked puzzled, but his hand moved toward his neck. "It's alright, I have one, too," Gabriel said, fishing a large, silver medal out and over the neckline of his black sweater. "What parish do you attend?"

He seemed equally nervous and disinterested in the conversation, but answered, "St. Matt's, over by the Costco." Gabriel nodded.

"I know the place. Fr. Bill, right?"

"Yeah," the young man said.

"Next time you're there, ask Fr. Bill to introduce you to a friend of mine, a friend of ours, really.  His name is Fr. Francis. I think the two of you would have a lot to talk about." Gabriel did not enjoy this. These conversations always felt like they were turning sideways and were beyond his control to salvage. Yet he could not ignore the prodding in his heart to send this young man to the priest who helped him embrace the calling and who still heard his confession every week. 

"Uhh...sure. Yeah." Marcus-Mark-Matthew was moving for the door. Gabriel's time was up.

"One second, I have something for you," he said, holding up a finger. He dug in his bag and pulled out several cards of various sizes. Some were laminated and glossy, others were stiff and worn. "Pick a card, any card," he said, forcing a smile that he was certain the young man knew was as uncomfortable to look at as Gabriel was making this poor kid feel. Nevertheless, he obliged. He flipped it over in his hand.

"Is that...John Paul?" he asked, looking at the Holy Card.

"That is Pope John Paul the Great, yes. And that card you're holding happens to be a Third Class Relic of his. See the stamp?" Gabriel pointed to the light outline on the card. The young man nodded. "You carry that with you for a while. And be sure to ask Fr. Bill about meeting with Fr. Francis. Tell him Fah...uh, tell him Gabe sent you."

Gabriel watched the student leave, then took his phone from the desk and sent a text message to Charles.

"Sending another one your way. He will be a holy priest with the right direction and a nudge."

---

Email

As he walked to the car, the various contents of his bag tinkling and shifting, his phone buzzed. He was surprised because Charles was notorious for abandoning his cell phone whenever he could.

The notification was for an email, not a text message, and not from Fr. Francis. Gabriel did not recognize the sender, and his email was scarcely active apart from a few newsletters from various Catholic organizations, so he set his bag on the trunk of his old green Camry to read it.

The email was from a concerned mother. She believed her daughter was possessed (didn't they all?), or at least in league with some dark force. Psychologists, psychiatrists, and various medical professionals have been consulted. Gabriel even recognized a few names in the lineup. When all else failed, the woman and her husband resorted to their parish priest, who was helpful only in recommending they contact him, Fr. Gabriel Marlow.

He pocketed his phone and rubbed his eyes. Even in his sleep-deprived and caffeine-addled state, he could read between the lines; the email was pregnant with clues pointing to mental illness, potentially drug use. This was not a case for him, and he would have to discuss the circumstances under which he ought to be contacted with Monsignor Andrew. He opened the Camry's driver's door and heaved his bag over the center console into the passenger's seat, where it landed with the sound of glass bottles and bells being violently introduced.

He took out his phone, ready to reply with a brief but courteous response declining to meet with the couple and their daughter. He did not want this email left unanswered in case he slept for twelve or fourteen hours straight, which was unlikely anyway, given how often he awoke to kneel and pray for someone he had dreamed of—or who had come to mind just before his eyes opened.

He began to type. "Dear Mr. and Mrs. Molina, I appreciate your email and empathize with you as well as you're daughter. While I will offer my prayers for yourselves and her, I regret to inform you that I must decline..."

"No."

The voice was like a whisper into a microphone. It filled the car and his chest cavity, but was not so much loud as it was forceful. It was familiar- he could not count the times he had heard it, beginning as it had when he was a boy.  Her voice, assigned from when he was crafted in his mother’s womb.

"No?" he said, looking up. There was no response, and his thumb hovered over the keyboard. The crucifix hanging from his rearview mirror began to sway back and forth like a hypnotist's watch. He sighed, shaking his head.

"Ok. Bit dramatic...but fine." He deleted the email and wrote and sent a second one, proposing that he make the two-hour drive upstate the following day. So much for a good night's sleep, he thought. He desperately needed even six hours of sleep, but despite the likelihood of this being a wild goose chase, he still needed to prepare in case it wasn't.

Had he been even incrementally more present to the moment, his Latin would have alerted him to the last name of the family he was meeting tomorrow.

molina; derived from the word mola, meaning "mill", as in "millstone." A place of grinding down.

---

Encounter

He woke twice in the night — once at midnight to recite Compline from his breviary, and again at 3:00 A.M. for the final time. Mechanically, he opened to the day’s Lauds and chanted as he once had before trading a monk’s cell for an adjunct’s salary and equally menial lodgings.

Afterward, he prayed a Rosary — slowly, contemplatively — focusing on each of the Sorrowful Mysteries so intently he forgot his fingers were still rhythmically counting beads. He concluded with several litanies, then opened a thin, worn leather manual. Like his breviary, his thumb found the proper pages by habit, though his voice carried real fervor, especially in the binding prayers.

From his desk, he packed a small, antique gold sphere — a curious thing, like the toy of a child whose father might have been a czar or king. He sprinkled blessed salt into each pocket and drew a large cross on the sole of each shoe in blessed chalk. The old crosses were still faintly visible, but he took nothing for granted. Finally, he added a few drops of holy water to his black coffee.

The drive upstate was peaceful — long in that peculiar way only two-lane blacktop roads with 55-mile-per-hour limits can be. Gabriel loved nature, especially after months in his cramped city apartment. It was in nature he had first truly encountered God: moved to tears as a boy watching a sunset, or feeling an immensity swell in his chest while lying under a sky thick with stars. These days, the woods seemed the last place he could still find peace — ironic, considering how often Scripture and the saints spoke of angels and other beings appearing in the wilderness.

He was listening to a theatrical recording of The Divine Comedy and reached blindly into his bag. His hand closed on the cool aluminum of his second Tripleshot of the day. He cracked it open and set it in the cup holder beside the Styrofoam cup of lukewarm coffee — the older brother and the younger, side by side.

Gabriel thumbed the rosary ring on his index finger, not praying but no longer listening to Dante and Virgil’s harrowing descent. The sharp scent of uncured tobacco jolted him back to awareness — just in time to see a brown, motionless shape in the road ahead.

The Camry was old and of questionable providence, but the brakes held. The green sedan screeched to a stop a few feet from the deer. Gabriel’s breath came out ragged as he rested his forehead against the steering wheel.

“Angel of God, my guardian dear indeed,” he muttered, chuckling at the dear/deer irony despite himself.

He looked up, surprised first that the deer hadn’t moved — resigned, it seemed, to being unceremoniously converted into ground meat. Then he noticed its size. The creature was enormous, closer to an elk than a deer. Though no sportsman, Gabriel knew a whitetail when he saw one. Judging by the antlers crowning this one, some hunter surely had a trail camera trained on it, dreaming of transferring the rack from head to den wall.

Several seconds passed. Still, the animal stood, a statue in the road. He could see the veins in its legs and the white of its wide, cow-like nose. A verse rose unbidden: As the deer longs for running streams…

Gabriel set his hand on the wheel, preparing to tap the horn. The buck broke the silence first — a deep, primitive grunt — then bolted into the trees.

Gabriel shook his head, then his hands, feeling adrenaline surge through him and tasting metal on his tongue. He grabbed the coffee, sipped, swished the bitter liquid in his mouth, swallowed, and drove on.

In the rearview mirror, two long black skid marks stretched behind him like an omen on the pavement.

Molina

Despite his encounter with the great outdoors, he arrived at the Molinas’ house precisely at 9:00 A.M. He parked in the dirt driveway, grabbed his leather bag, and stepped out. The house was old but well-kept. Judging by the distance from the last town and the propane tank beside the garage, he assumed it ran on a well. Contaminated water was uncommon but could explain any number of oddities people mistook for the paranormal. A small carbon-monoxide leak could do the same — along with countless other natural factors one might expect in the country.

He was halfway to the porch when the front door opened and a woman appeared, followed closely by a man. They looked neat and put-together yet natural — as if the man had chosen between several clean Columbia flannels and the woman had debated which earrings to wear. The impression was honest and set Gabriel somewhat at ease.

“Mr. and Mrs. Molina?”

“That’s us — thank you so much for coming, Father. Can we… do we call you Father?”

“You may,” Gabriel said with a faint smile. “Though I believe Monsignor informed you of my circumstances.”

A pause — the sort of pause he had grown used to when his former life surfaced like an old photograph. He smiled again to disarm it. “It’s quite all right. The Lord works in mysterious ways — even for monks.”

Relief broke over Mrs. Molina’s face. Mr. Molina stepped forward. “Let me take that, Father — looks heavy.”

“No, thank you,” Gabriel said quickly. “Some of what I carry is old and fragile. Please, take no offense.”

Mr. Molina raised his hands in surrender, smiling.

“Well, like Suzie said, we sure appreciate you driving all the way out here. That road’s a bit of a bastard.”

“Ross!” Suzie hissed, swatting his arm.

Gabriel smiled, raising a calming hand. “That’s quite all right, sir. I’m not the Pope.”

They laughed, the sound erasing nearly all the tension that had hung between them.

“Actually, the drive was peaceful,” Gabriel said. “Though if you’re a hunter, I hope your neighbors are friendly. I saw the biggest buck I’ve ever seen a few miles down the road.”

Ross frowned. “A buck? How could you tell?”

“The antlers,” Gabriel said lightly. “I’m no hunter — and I disagree with trophy killing — but I imagine someone would want that deer above their fireplace.”

Ross chuckled. “Father, you surely aren’t a hunter. Deer don’t have antlers this time of year. Wrong season. These woods are full of sheds now — that’s what we call the antlers after they fall off.”

Fr. Gabriel didn’t hesitate. “I see. Must’ve been my mistake — eyes playing tricks. I don’t sleep well.” He nearly added anymore but stopped himself.

“Why don’t we all go inside and sit down?” Suzie said.

“That would be nice, thank you,” Gabriel replied.

“I’m not sure how much Suzie told you in the email, Father, but we’ve tried everything. We didn’t know where else to turn. We thought maybe an exorcism — last resort, you know?”

“Monsignor Andrew said there’s no exorcist in the diocese right now, and even if there were, he wouldn’t take our case.”

The living room was tidy and tastefully decorated, though Gabriel noted the absence of any religious images — not even a cheap crucifix over the door.

“Monsignor was correct,” Gabriel said. “This diocese has no exorcist, and obtaining one requires the bishop’s permission. The Church may be God’s, but she’s still run like every bureaucracy — by failed men. Apart from the red tape, the lack of an exorcist is actually a good sign. Most issues people bring to the Church don’t require the formal rite. It’s exceedingly rare, and many cases are resolved through ordinary interventions — most of them medical rather than supernatural.”

“Doctors? You mean doctors?” Suzie asked. “No doctor has helped us — no pills, no therapy, nothing. And what I told you in the email isn’t even half of it.”

“You’ve no idea the time and money we’ve spent,” Ross added. “It’s just been exhausting.”

Something pricked Gabriel’s inner radar. The tidy, polite Molinas spoke of their daughter’s illness only as a burden to them. They hadn’t mentioned her by name — only their fatigue. It was common enough, but he noted it, along with the absence of visible faith.

“You have my sympathy — and my prayers,” Gabriel said. “I know how trying this can be. Our world offers instant answers to everything except what hurts most.”

Tears brimmed in Suzie’s eyes. She rolled her lips inward, fighting a sob.

Sad, or relieved? he wondered. Time would tell.

“We just want help, Father. We have nowhere else to go,” Ross said.

“St. Peter said something similar to Christ. No matter your daughter’s condition, I assure you Our Lord is always the answer. Why don’t you start by telling me when this began — and what specialists you’ve seen? Tests, observations, recommendations, that sort of thing.”

The Molinas explained that their daughter — unnamed in Suzie’s email but now introduced as Theresa — had begun suffering violent night terrors a little over a year ago. Suzie said her great-aunt, a deeply religious woman who’d helped raise Theresa during a rough patch in the marriage, had passed away just before the terrors began. Doctors suggested unprocessed trauma, grief, or depression — perhaps all three.

“And I said that was ridiculous,” Ross said, gesturing broadly. “Look at the life we’ve got. She grew up here in the country — wanted for nothing. What’s traumatic about that? Who’s depressed out here?”

Gabriel asked about tests and treatments. The Molinas said sleeping pills had no effect, and antidepressants dulled Theresa’s motivation to attend college or see friends. Various therapies produced little change.

“They tried to teach her coping mechanisms, but how do you cope with night terrors?” Suzie said. “She’s asleep — it’s not like she can control it.”

“What made you turn to the Church?” Gabriel asked.

Suzie sighed and glanced at Ross. “My aunt was a devout Catholic, like I said. She actually took vows with the sisters — I can’t remember the name, but the ones with the brown habit.”

“Several orders wear brown. Most likely the Poor Clares or the Franciscans.” He didn’t mention the Carmelites.

“Poor Clares, that’s it. Anyway, she left before final vows, but she stayed very religious. We haven’t been the best Catholics — God knows — but she taught Theresa her prayers and catechism. When she died, and we were cleaning out her house, Theresa asked for one of the rosaries. I didn’t even know she still had it, but a few months ago she came to me and said she’d forgotten how to pray it.”

“She didn’t forget,” Ross said quietly. “She couldn’t say the words right.”

Gabriel looked up from his notes. “What do you mean?”

“They were all mixed up — words in the wrong order, letters jumbled, like dyslexia,” Ross said.

“We had her checked for that,” Suzie added. “She isn’t dyslexic. No problems at all — except with prayers, especially the Hail Marys. We even saw a speech pathologist. For months, she couldn’t start the Hail Mary. She said it wrong every time — ‘Mail Harry.’”

Ross was still talking, but Gabriel no longer heard him. His notes trailed into a jagged lightning-bolt line. His heartbeat thudded in his ears. His mind raced backward through years of shadow — to the Carmelite monastery where the line between Heaven and Hell first blurred, where God’s voice and the Enemy’s began to sound the same.

“Father? Are you all right? Would you like some water?” Suzie asked.

Gabriel cleared his throat and brushed a thumb across his eyebrow. “I apologize. The story of your aunt reminded me of my novitiate — happier times, in many ways. Would you excuse me? I left something in the car.”

“Of course,” Suzie said softly. Ross’s eyes shifted between them, concern mingled with suspicion.

Outside, Gabriel walked slowly to the Camry. The sun beat down on his black sweater, but he was sweating before the door even closed behind him. The hot, writhing feeling from Adoration returned, prickling beneath his skin.

Too much caffeine, he told himself. He opened the driver’s door and grabbed a Werther’s from the stash in the side pocket. Sugar helped tame the rough edges of his caffeine habit. Relief followed seconds after the caramel hit his tongue. He breathed deeply — in through the nose, out through the mouth — and pulled his rosary from his pocket.

He looked back at the house, searching for the part of the spirit that sensed danger or the uncanny.

Did I miss something? Walk into this ill-prepared? Not again.

No crucifixes, no pictures, not even a garden statue of St. Francis or the Blessed Mother… but they aren’t religious, and they aren’t hiding it. The doctors said trauma. The aunt dies — the one who raised her. These people are kind enough, but neither seems capable of guiding a young woman through grief. Why was the aunt the mother figure in the first place? What happened? No, no… this is coincidence. Occam’s razor, Gabe. The simplest answer. Trauma. The garbled Hail Mary — it’s just part of it. Attachment to the aunt. Had she loved knitting instead, Theresa wouldn’t sleep without a blanket. If she’d fixed lamps, the girl would need a lamp on. Circumstance and trauma — as most things are.

He returned to himself and noticed his fingers racing over the rosary beads. He took a few steadying breaths, then looked around.

A cross-shaped utility pole, bent from years of storms, caught his eye. He stepped toward it, shading his eyes with one hand. Up close, it was abandoned — a wooden cross standing stark against the blue. At its base lay a green-tinted log, waiting its turn to weather storms and carry messages.

A voice calling from behind him broke his concentration.

---

Theresa

“Hi, are you okay? Are you lost?”

I don’t know yet, was the answer that shot from his brain to his tongue, but he cut it off and banished it back to its source.

A young woman was walking up the driveway beside a bicycle toward him.

“I’m not, no. I’m—”

“Are you Father Gabriel?” she asked, stopping a few feet from him and leaning the bike on her hip.

“I am. I was just inside with your parents and—”

He stopped. The girl’s features hadn’t changed, but tears were streaming down her face. Are you the lost one, sister? he thought. “I’m sorry—are you all right?”

“Please… help…” she whispered.

His mind conjured a scene from a film he couldn’t quite recall — a woman with short orange hair attempting to ask for help, pronouncing it halp.

“I will,” he said, glancing at the bent utility pole.

“Theresa, Theresa — this is Father Gabriel. Monsignor Andrew recommended him; do you remember?” Suzie Molina stood on the porch, her husband behind her in the doorway. The girl bumped the bike with her hip, knocking it to the ground. She bent to pick it up, wiping her cheeks on her shoulders as she did.

“We were just talking with him inside. Why don’t you join us?” Ross said.

Gabriel held up a hand. “Actually, I’d like to speak with Theresa alone, if that’s all right — outside, if possible.”

Neither parent answered. Theresa nodded. “Let me put my bike away,” she said, moving toward the garage.

“If it’s all the same to you, I thought I might walk while you ride. I live in the city and don’t get much country air anymore; you’d be doing me a favor.”

“Yeah, sure,” Theresa said.

He considered ducking back in for his bag, but the moment felt too urgent to trifle with notebooks and reliquaries. He committed the bag — and what came next — to God and followed her down the driveway.

“So you used to be a monk? My aunt was a nun — well, not really. Almost. She used to tell me stories about the convent. She left to have a family. Is that why you left?”

Fr. Gabriel noted the immediate, casual mention of the deceased aunt. “Not exactly. I was… struggling. I couldn’t stay.”

“Did you stop believing in God?” Theresa asked. Her tone was genuine — the question of a seeker, wondering rather than prodding.

“No, nothing like that. I’ve always believed. I had difficult experiences no one could explain. After a while, it was too great a burden to carry.”

“I know what that’s like,” Theresa said, spinning the pedals backward. He suspected she was talking about more than night terrors.

“I believe you do, Theresa. That’s why I’m here. Why do you think your parents turned to the Church for help?”

“Oh, it wasn’t their idea. The doctors and tests, all the therapy — that was them, not me. I asked for years to go back to church and it was always ‘we’re too busy’ or ‘I don’t want to give up my weekends.’ Once I started college and got a car, I started going though.”

“By yourself?”

“Yeah.”

“Do your parents know?”

“They should; I’ve told them. Wouldn’t surprise me if they didn’t,” Theresa said.

“What makes you say that?” Gabriel asked. Heat gathered beneath his black sweater; he considered taking it off, then chalked it up as free penance and dabbed his brow with the cuff.

“Can I be honest with you?” Theresa stopped the bike and planted one foot.

Gabriel nodded. “I’m still ordained; we can count this as a kind of impromptu confession if you’d like.”

She considered it. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but… my parents never wanted me. They wanted my sister — the first Theresa, the one who died. My whole life has been them forcing me into the memory of a person they never knew. Do you know what that’s like? Trying to compete with a perfect memory of someone who only lived a few minutes?”

His mind drifted back to before the darkness — to days when God’s light had brought clarity, when the battlefield banners were unmistakable. He had been free then. Now he was a hostage of sorts, though he could never be sure to which side. His allegiance was steadfast — if only he could find the right standard to stand beneath.

“I know something about that, yes. Is that why you lived with your aunt — the almost-nun?”

Theresa pushed off, and he resumed walking.

“I guess. She never said that. She just said my parents were struggling, grieving. Said they needed time and I couldn’t really understand it. She was right — I didn’t then, and I sure the fuck don’t now. Oh gosh, I’m sorry; I don’t usually swear.”

“Don’t apologize. I’ve heard worse. Did your parents ever talk to you about that time?”

“Not once. They act like it never happened. I know the doctors told my mom to wait and get testing before getting pregnant again, and that didn’t happen because I was born thirteen months after… after she… after.” She paused. Gabriel let the silence lead; it was time to listen.

“You know what makes no sense to me?” she said at last. “I was born after, right? It’s not like I was born and then they had another baby and that baby died. They had me. But they didn’t want me; they wanted her.”

Fr. Gabriel asked God to forgive the relief that flickered through him. This is trauma. There’s no boogeyman here.

“When I was with the brothers, one of the hardest things was letting God break the cages we and other people build for us. Even people we love — or who love us — craft a cage to fit us into. But God doesn’t want us parceled out in pieces; He wants us whole — united in freedom and love. Many people — holier and more devout than I am — struggle to let grace break those cages. It may be the hardest task of the interior life. And you don’t need to be religious to have a life full of cages. Everyone has them.”

“That’s exactly it — oh my gosh. I never thought of it like that. They stuffed me in a cage. Even my name isn’t mine; it was hers.”

Trauma, he thought — trauma, trauma, trauma.

His heart ached for this young woman, trapped in the memory and grief of adults who believed she was the problem and lacked the self-awareness to examine themselves. She was a prodigal daughter — except she hadn’t left the Father’s house of her own will; she had been banished.

“Remind me — I have a book I think you’ll like. It’s helped me through many trials. Can you tell me anything about the night terrors?”

“I don’t know. I’m asleep when they happen. My dad recorded a few at the beginning — I think he thought I was faking, because he’d make me watch and keep asking if I knew what I was doing to them and stuff. I don’t like how I feel when I wake up, and I’m pretty tired most of the time. That’s about it.”

“Night terrors can be extremely disorienting. They’re unpleasant — even unnerving — to watch, but waking from them without proper help can be jarring. Did you know many cases of supposed possession and witchcraft are now believed to have been night terrors?”

“I can believe that. Honestly, they’ve gotten better lately. I started going to Adoration once a week after my Thursday class, and one night I just sobbed the whole hour. I didn’t get to go to my aunt’s funeral — I had strep — and I guess I never really grieved. But I let it all out right there, in front of God — with Him, I guess. It was the first time in a long time I felt any better or different. That’s why I wanted to start praying the Rosary.”

Tears filled Fr. Gabriel’s eyes. How many young people had come to him with the same story? How many times had his own heart broken open as he lay prostrate before the monstrance?

“Theresa, what you’re describing isn’t uncommon — and it’s also a profound gift of grace. When Christ tells the woman her faith has healed her, it isn’t only a physical malady. She’s been restored — made whole.”

“Her cage was broke,” Theresa said.

“Beautifully said. You have the makings of a theologian.”

They went on in silence — she weaving the bike along the shoulder, he kicking at stones.

“I don’t think there’s any such thing as a theologian who can’t pray,” Theresa said. He heard grief and desire mingling in it.

“You’re talking about struggling to say the Hail Mary?”

Theresa’s head snapped toward him. Confusion clouded her eyes, and beneath it, pain.

Confusion and pain are the parents of betrayal, he thought. I’ve been listening to Dante too long.

He stopped and crossed himself. “Theresa, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—” to what? Say it that way? Could he throw that excuse at her?

“Forgive me.”

He regretted not retrieving his bag. There might be a rational explanation for Theresa Molina’s experience — a tragic, human one — but that didn’t mean he couldn’t still provoke something, coax it from its cave like a man luring a hungry dog with a scrap. He knew how the collar and habit enticed the Enemy.

Theresa didn’t seem in a forgiving mood. Her face reddened — not from heat, but anger. Tears rolled down, dripping off her chin into the dry gravel.

“Mail Harry… muh-muh… hhuhhh… Mail… MAIL HARRY. I can’t fucking say it!” she screamed.

Somewhere in the green veil of woods, a small animal rustled away from the sound.

Her voice fell to a strained whisper. “I can’t. Ooohhh God, I just can’t,” she groaned.

Gabriel decided he’d put her through enough for one day. He’d been careless with her honesty; the gap that had been closing between them was now too wide for anything meaningful. He would need to reset and try again.

They returned to the Molina house in silence. Theresa leaned the bike against the garage and went inside, leaving Gabriel standing in the driveway with the bent cross — and the weight of his shame.

He prayed silently, begging for wisdom and guidance. He prayed for all three Molinas, and to St. Michael for protection.

Suzie and Ross Molina sat in the living room when he entered. Tension charged the air; he resolved to leave quickly.

“I don’t know what you two talked about, or what you said to her…” Gabriel braced for the finale of Ross’s sentence, “but she said she feels a lot better — and hopes to see you again soon.”

Gabriel smiled. “Praise God’s goodness for that. I’m happy to see Theresa again. This may not be what you want to hear, but I don’t think my particular skill set will be much use for her issue. She’s very bright and has a real hunger for God — and that does happen to be my department.”

“Well, what do you mean, nothing is wrong with her?” Suzie asked, her face scrunching.

“I’d encourage you both to widen your perception here and not treat this as a binary problem. Life isn’t usually black and white. I’m not saying there isn’t a problem — only that labeling it as the problem might become a problem of its own.”

The Molinas stared. That’s my cue, he thought.

“I told Theresa I had a book for her, if you wouldn’t mind passing it along.” He opened his bag and pulled out one of three copies of Surrender to Love by David Benner, handing it to Suzie. “A dear Jesuit gave me that when I was first discerning. I’ve given away dozens — and still read it.” He reached in again and produced a holy card bearing St. Padre Pio’s smiling, bearded face. “She’ll need a bookmark.”

He left after promising to be in touch. Dropping into the Camry’s driver seat, he rubbed his eyes, dreading the two-hour drive on a handful of hours’ sleep. He looked down at the cup holders, weighing lukewarm coffee against the half-drunk energy drink. The Tripleshot had protein and calories. The coffee didn’t. He could use both.

He raised the can to his lips.

He didn’t hear the fly — only felt the thin, wiry legs dance across his tongue.

He spat and retched, jerking the door open in case anything came up.

In his lap, in a puddle of mocha-colored espresso and cream, lay a jet-black fly the size of his pinky. On its back, legs flailed. He shivered. The memory of those legs on his tongue mixed with the sight of them writhing now.

He stared.

It wasn’t just black — it was onyx. Vantablack. The kind of color that swallows light.

And the legs…

How many legs do flies have? Eight? Ten?

He couldn’t tell. They moved too furiously.

He cocked his middle finger and snapped. The fly buzzed and tumbled out of the car.

See, Gabriel, he thought, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, there are flies in the country too.

He put the car in gear.

 

Confession

“And will you now say an Act of Contrition?”

Gabriel was silent. On his knees, he was eye level with the rectory’s front door, and he glanced at it.

Fr. Francis cleared his throat. Gabriel looked up at him. The priest looked down, eyebrows raised expectantly.

Gabriel glanced at the door again. He said the Act of Contrition.

Fr. Francis finished, and the two men crossed themselves. Gabriel stood, groaning. His back ached, and as he looked at Fr. Francis — twenty years his senior — he wondered when he would no longer be able to kneel for the sacrament.

Fr. Francis narrowed his eyes. “Why do you make me do this?”

Gabriel cocked his head at the priest.

“Don’t look at me that way,” Fr. Francis went on. “Why do you insist on this? Do you even listen to anything I say?”

“I listen,” Gabriel said.

“Well, you’re the spiritual director, not me. The roles should be reversed, and half of your confession boils down to, ‘I love God so much that even considering offending Him makes me run to the confessional.’ Which, if I may, is a kind of sin in its own right.”

The two priests exchanged a glance. Gabriel sighed.

“You cannot manage yourself into perfection, Gabe. You cannot hold a line so tight that God is impressed by your efforts and then rewards you with clarity.”

“I’m here for your absolution, not a theology lecture,” Gabriel said.

“What, is my company so poor?”

“I know this is a burden. I’m certain God will reward you for the mercy you show me.”

Fr. Francis flapped a hand at him, crossing his legs. “Baaah. Cut the professorial, pastoral prose. I know you, Gabe. Don’t forget that some of us know you,” Fr. Francis said, emphasizing the last word with a point. Gabriel answered with his own dismissive hand-flap. “Have you taken Communion yet? Have you made any progress on your issues?” the old priest asked.

“It isn’t that simple, Father.”

“Yet it is, in fact, that simple! God is simple! His Heart is simple! You insist — in your pride — on complicating the entire thing and making the rest of us very confused in the process!” Fr. Francis said.

“Francis, we’ve—”

“Ah!” Fr. Francis said, holding up a finger and then pointing to his collar.

Gabriel breathed heavily through his nose. “Father. We’ve had this conversation. Dozens of times now. I know this is frustrating. I know what you’re saying is true. It’s the same advice I would give me. But I’m—”

“What, Gabe? Special? You know who else thought they were sooooo special?”

“C’mon,” Gabriel said, side-eyeing the priest. “Don’t say it.”

“Fine. I won’t — but it didn’t end well, if you recall. I will not serve. That’s the cry of everyone who thinks their pain is special, that their wounds are too unique for the rules to apply. So they make their own,” Fr. Francis said.

“I’m not making rules, Frank! They broke around me. I went to Rome. I did what they asked. Every box was checked. I didn’t ask for this — this… spiritual terminal illness. You think I chose to be a shepherd with no rod and staff?” Gabriel was standing now, jaw set, eyes hard on Fr. Francis. Somewhere in the rectory kitchen, the fridge hummed.

Fr. Francis did not like to upset people. He spent a good deal of time on the other side of the confessional for all the times his weakness had made situations worse. Gabe might not have known — or believed — but there was a pillar of fire behind that cold stare, and it frightened Fr. Francis like a Hebrew tapping Moses on the shoulder to ask if there would be dinner or if they should just enjoy the view already.

Fr. Francis raised his hands in surrender.

“I’m not trying to upset you, Gabe. I love you. It hurts to see you still so… racked with all this. It’s confusing for me, as a priest and your confessor, to not entirely understand it. I’m human. You remember that, right? You remember we’re human? What was it the poet said? Woe to you, O man, whose days, though short…”

“Are spent in idle follies till the end,” Gabriel finished.

Fr. Francis spread his arms. “There. That’s it. Idle follies till the end. This,” he said, gesturing around, “this is idle folly.”

“You mean my weekly confessions?” Gabriel asked.

Fr. Francis paused, looked at him, and burst out laughing. Gabriel laughed lightly with him.

“This valley of tears, my son,” Fr. Francis said after collecting himself. The fridge cycled off with a whir, and silence settled.

“Some of us have been in that valley a long time,” Gabe said.

Fr. Francis nodded.

“You know I appreciate this,” Gabriel said, opening his arms to hug the older priest.

“I know. And so do I,” Fr. Francis said, patting Gabriel’s back firmly. They separated. “You never fail to make me feel a bit better about myself.” Gabriel laughed.

Fr. Francis handed him two Ziploc bags: one with a few pieces of white chalk, the other half-filled with salt.

“I still don’t really understand why you can’t do this yourself,” Fr. Francis said.

“Just… keep humoring me, alright?” Gabriel said. He took the items and placed them in his bag.

“It’s borderline superstitious. Hell, it is superstitious,” Fr. Francis said.

“Well, if superstition is the worst I’ll have to answer for, I’ll count it a mercy,” Gabriel said.

“I wouldn’t expect Him to let you off that easily — I don’t care how many people you save. Speaking of, working on anything right now?” Fr. Francis asked.

“That may be a record. The longest you’ve ever gone before asking me.”

“Well, excuse me for being interested in your life,” Fr. Francis said.

“Martyrdom does not suit you, Frank,” Gabe said.

“Fine. Don’t tell me. But maybe it’s time to find someone else to bless your salt — is all I’m saying.”

Gabriel sighed. “Yes, I’m working. Another trauma case. That sounds cold; I don’t mean it that way. You just…” He trailed off.

“See it so often,” Fr. Francis offered, nodding. “I know. Anyone I know?”

“Even if I could tell you, the answer is no. No, Frank — these aren’t the churchy type. Well, the daughter is, I suppose.” He winced. “Shouldn’t have said that.”

Fr. Francis flapped his hand as if swatting a fly. “Already forgot. Seal of confession and all,” he said. “You going to see her again?”

Gabriel looked at him sternly. “One more time, I think. She needs love — God’s love — not me,” he said.

“You’re sure?” Fr. Francis asked. Gabriel held his gaze. Fr. Francis put his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “I just mean… I just heard your confession; it wouldn’t be prudent to bring up the past.”

“Now who’s playing priest, Frank?”

“No — I just mean you’ve been sure before. Be careful, that’s all. The other side… well, he keeps them on a leash,” Fr. Francis said, nodding at the San Damiano crucifix on the wall. “No free will — not like us. That complicates things.”

“I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but I think I know the rules of the game,” Gabriel said.

“No one knows them better. You just can’t seem to be certain which side you’re playing for on any given day.”

Gabriel nodded slowly. “That… that is the problem. But not here. Not with this one. This one is—”

“Different?” Fr. Francis interrupted.

“The same. Like so many others. Trauma. Grief. Open wounds left to fester.”

Fr. Francis uncrossed, then crossed his arms. “You’re the expert, but that sounds like prime breeding ground for the old goat. And she’s still with you — your guardian angel? She helps you pick? Did she pick this one?”

“That isn’t exactly how it works, Frank.”

“She’s your guardian angel, not mine. You just make it sound like she — you know — helps you choose.”

“Sometimes,” Gabriel said. He shifted his weight.

“Gabe,” Fr. Francis began.

Gabriel held up a hand. “Don’t start. It’s been a lovely evening — don’t ruin it.”

“When I agreed to do this for you, what did I say? From the beginning? Be honest with me. And I wasn’t just talking about when you drag up here every week to be absolved. If this one is really a dime-a-dozen case like you say, I’ll shut up. I’ve known you a long time, Gabe. I know more about you than you may care to remember — but the ones she picks… they aren’t a dime a dozen. That’s why she picks them.”

“Could you not lecture me on my own guardian angel, please?” Gabriel said — not unkindly.

“Fair enough, but you show up looking worse than usual.”

“Thanks,” Gabriel said.

“Let me finish. You look like you haven’t slept in weeks. You zoned out during confession.”

“I wasn’t zoned out,” Gabriel said.

“Let. Me. Finish. That student you sent my way — Matthew, or whatever his name was? You missed the mark there. Zero vocational aptitude. And that’s not a target you miss often. If you were rattling any more, I’d call you Ezekiel. What gives?”

Gabriel looked at the old priest. Resistance rose in his heart and mind — the very resistance he trained so many young men in black shirts and white collars to identify and counter. He sighed.

“Sit down,” Gabriel said.

Fr. Francis looked at him.

“Sit down,” he said again. “If you insist on interrogating me.”

Gabriel told him about his meeting with the Molinas.

“Molina… Molina… there’s Latin in there somewhere, right?” Fr. Francis mused.

Gabriel’s jaw dropped.

Fr. Francis laughed. “You missed that, too? Gabe, if you were a drinker I’d pull out the brandy, because you need medicine if I picked up hidden Latin before you did.”

“It isn’t even hidden — it’s right there. Molina. A millstone. I don’t believe it.”

“Eh, you’re exhausted. And you aren’t as young as you look, I might add.”

“No, no, Frank… this is… you were right.”

“What a nice change,” Fr. Francis said, though his face was shaded with confusion and concern. “About what?”

Gabriel stood and walked to the San Damiano crucifix. His mind jolted awake — buzzing like bees, and with just as much direction. He looked at the crucifix, then at Fr. Francis.

“Do you remember how all this started?” he asked.

Fr. Francis shook his head weakly, unsure what Gabriel meant.

“Years ago, when I came back from Rome. In the beginning?”

Fr. Francis nodded.

“Mail Harry,” he whispered — so quietly it was as if he didn’t want anyone, not even Gabriel, to hear. “The deliverance ministry… and your vision, or whatever. I remember.”

“This girl, Theresa, she said it. I wrote it off as trauma — as… well, as nothing. What if it isn’t?”

“Wait, she said it? Said what?” Fr. Francis asked.

“The prayer she can’t say — it’s the Hail Mary in the Rosary. She said it right in front of me: Mail Harry. Just like that.”

“Gabe, I love a good ghost story, I do, but this seems a bit too out there. Where’s the logic? What does the evidence suggest? You’re exhausted and grasping at straws.”

“You said it yourself — she picks them. I know my radar has been off ever since… well, for a long time. But even I should see God put me in these people’s lives.”

“That may be true — probably is. But you cannot layer your past onto this, whatever it is. You cannot hear hoofbeats and look for zebras, Gabe,” Fr. Francis said, looking at him sternly. “Occam’s razor. We’re priests, not witch doctors.”

“You’re a priest, Frank. I’m… something else.”

Fr. Francis shook his head emphatically. “If you walked out my door and got hit by a bus, wherever you end up after, it’ll be with a collar around your neck. That’s how this works. Now, maybe you missed a few things here and there. We’re human, remember? We talked about this. Don’t let that confuse you; don’t let it spiral. What would Ignatius say? What’s the rule for discernment here?”

Gabriel stopped pacing. “You’re right,” he said. He rubbed his eyebrow with his thumbnail and returned to his wingback chair. “I’ve had a string of days with not enough sleep and too much caffeine. I have to slow down.”

“You have to sleep — that’s what you have to do,” Fr. Francis said.

Gabriel waved it off. “She said Mail Harry — that’s a fact. It’s also a fact this family is loaded with unhealed trauma and grief.”

“And it’s a fact you are exhausted, as I’ve said. And you missed a few shots — which, as I said, makes you human,” Fr. Francis said.

“You’re right,” Gabriel said.

“That’s three times in one conversation you’ve told me I’m right. Is it a feast day I’m unaware of?” the old priest said.

Gabriel chuckled. “It can be all of those things at once.”

“Indeed — the classical both-and of Catholicism,” Fr. Francis said. “Fides et ratio.”

“Fides et ratio,” Gabriel echoed.

The fridge whirred back to life. Gabriel looked at the oversized crucifix.

You wouldn’t have missed the Latin, he thought, staring into Christ’s weary eyes. But there’s something here You don’t want me to miss.

“Still,” Fr. Francis said, breaking the silence. “It is a peculiar coincidence.”

Gabriel eyed him. Fr. Francis saw it and flapped a hand. Don’t listen to me, the gesture said.

The two priests sat together in silence, feeling the spiritual weight of the trade they had not chosen.

Peculiar doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t have to mean anything. He’s right to be cautious — and I have been. I am. What else does he think the salt is for? One more visit. One more talk with Theresa, and then I’ll— wash my hands of it floated up, and he rejected it. Deliver my final assessment. They won’t like it, but — like Frank said — I can’t conjure zebras for the hoofbeats they’re hearing.

A light snore interrupted his thoughts. Gabriel set a hand on the dozing priest’s knee. His head shot up, and he looked directly at Gabriel.

“Wasn’t sleeping,” Fr. Francis said.

“Didn’t say you were. All the same, I have to go.”

They stood and hugged again. Gabriel wasn’t much of a hugger, but Fr. Francis insisted. He had once told Gabriel that one of the hardest parts of “the calling” was the lack of human touch.

“People see the collar and it’s like you’re a leper — in reverse. Other than handshakes after Mass, maybe an occasional hug after a really good adult baptism, no one touches you. They didn’t teach us that in seminary — not in my day.”

As Gabriel left the rectory, gratitude swelled in his soul for his friendship with Frank and the grace it had been to him; he let his weary mind rest in the calm their meeting had curated.

“He’s right, about the deer.”

Gabriel was halfway down the rectory driveway and turned. Fr. Francis stood in the doorway, watching him.

“Huh?”

“The deer. No antlers this time of year — that’s what Ross said.”

“Oh, yeah… no antlers,” Gabriel said.

Fr. Francis disappeared behind the rectory door, and the calm Gabriel had only just begun to enjoy shifted like burning logs — breaking down under heat and time.

---