Anita had the vague, distant fear that she’d get caught doing something wrong. It crept over her in the corner of her eye, beckoned by colorful glass to live a vibrant, virtuous life. The air was lighter than the bar she had just gotten kicked out of. Clean.

She tripped over her own feet and fell to her knees. There was a brief look of confusion directed at the pavers.

“Oh, God,” she cursed, shaking her head.

Then, she squinted. Turned her head toward where she belatedly realized someone had tried to greet her.

“Oh. God.”

That time, it was the Name in vain but in a perplexed way.

“Father,” she guessed from the swimming black shape, rubbing her eyes and trying to get a look at his face.

Oh. He was a young thing.

“Son?” she automatically corrected, and then blinked.

Son? Which son? Was that …

“Claude, is that you? You’ve gotten so tall!” she said, warmly.

Anita tried to crawl up the nearest pew like a squirrel, without accounting for a squirrel’s claws or general lack of inebriation. All but her hand collapsed, grasping in vain on the arm of it before pulling her eyes above it again.

“You’ve joined the … priesthood!” she said.

Half the sentence sounded proud … but then it trailed off into a frown from mouth to forehead.