I sleep. And this time, I dream of nothing at all, because I have everything I need.
Right here.
8
MICHAEL
Iwake before the alarm, as always. The light in the hotel is cheap, thin, filtered through drapes that probably started as white but are the color of old teeth. I watch the ceiling for a while, counting the slow tick of the bedside clock and listening to Sarah breathe, even and gentle.
When I finally move, it’s in quiet increments. We needed to get out of town, to get away from the pressures of the lives we're so desperate to escape. So we took a drive into the city for some fresh perspective and also a meeting with my superiors.
Today is the meeting. Today is the reckoning.
Sarah wakes and approaches, cinching her robe tighter around her waist. For a second, we just stand, face to face, her bare feet on the carpet and mine in polished shoes. She tugs at my collar, fussing over the alignment.
“There,” she says, “now you’re ready.”
I hold her gaze. “I’ll be back in a few hours. Order room service if you get hungry. Charge whatever you want.”
She grins. “Are you expecting me to run up the bill? Steak, caviar, the whole nine yards?”
“Just don’t forget dessert.” I want to kiss her, but the moment feels too sacred for anything but a gentle press of my lips to her forehead. I linger there, breathing her in.
She rests her head against my chest, hand flat over my heart. “You’re nervous.”
“Terrified,” I admit.
“You don’t have to do this alone.” She says it so softly I almost miss it.
I step back, grab the briefcase from the desk, and heft it like a shield. My resignation, my proposal for transition, they both feel heavier than the bag itself.
At the door, I pause. Sarah steps forward, closes the gap, and runs her fingers over my collar one last time. Her touch is careful, deliberate.
“Good luck,” she whispers.
I don’t trust myself to answer, so I just nod and open the door. I glance back. She stands in the frame, haloed by the thin morning light, the hotel robe slipping off one shoulder. If I believed in omens, I’d call it a blessing.
Down the hallway, through the lobby, into the car. The world outside is colder than before. The engine catches on the first try.
The diocesan office sits on the second floor of a brick fortress, tacked onto the cathedral’s side like an afterthought. Inside, the air is dense with incense and old polish, every surface too well-maintained for how little foot traffic it gets. I check in at thefront desk, where a secretary with unblinking eyes points me down a corridor lined with green-and-gold carpet. As I walk, the sound of my own shoes is the only sign of life.
The meeting room is exactly as I remember it from every prior grilling. There's a long, heavy table that could double as a casket lid, chairs designed to keep a man upright and alert, and a stretch of stained glass that splashes the table with a rainbow of colors. The windows are a parade of saints, all unsmiling.
Along the wall, a lineup of former bishops gazes down, every one of them white, stern, and wreathed in the same dull brown frame.
Gregory is already there, perched on the edge of his seat, face pale but open. He wears his collar like it’s sewn to the skin. When he sees me, he rises, and for a second, his welcome and brief smile is almost friendly.
“Michael,” he says. “Thanks for coming.”
“Wasn’t much of a choice,” I say, trying for levity. It doesn’t land.
We exchange the kind of handshake meant to prove we’re both still human. Then he gestures me to a seat, the one closest to the window, as if the colored light might make me confess something. I set my briefcase on the table, the proposal within feeling like a live bomb.
A few minutes later, Bishop Donovan enters. He sits opposite me, fingers steepled, and gets right to the point.
“I read your letter.” His voice is mild, but there’s a tension under it. “I was rather hoping you’d come to your senses before today.”He pauses, swallows, and his eyes flick to and from Father Gregory. “Is it the girl?”
The room goes so quiet I can hear the heater’s slow gasp.
