It was a few stumbles before Anita registered what he said. Usually, it was an argument. Sometimes, silence. Had this one just said she was right?

She slowed to walk beside rather than ahead of her … son. Father? Son-father. Maybe she’d raised this one right. Maybe she’d finally gotten something right. Or maybe she’d just confused the poor thing so much he actually agreed with her.

Stick! Yes! A stick! They were going shopping in broad daylight! She’d actually be able to see what she was stealing! … Something seemed off about that. Like it could get complicated, fast. Nah. No matter!

“Perfect,” Anita said, giving it a smack against her palm and then using it mostly to balance better. “Thank you, son.”

It was fairly quiet in the alley behind the shops. One ragged woman was slouched against a wall, drinking. Anita eyed the bottle, then looked to her son with just a hint of embarrassment, and kept on toward the wall. She peered in a window, then closed her eyes. Thirteen windows down, and she prodded the window with her stick.

It rattled. She licked her lips. Then, tapped along the frame with the stick, palm hitting the base of it lightly against glass.

It cracked. She heard it, felt it, more than she saw it, but she knew what she was searching for. Anita steadied the stick against the glass, and pressed her weight against the weak point The crack grew. Pieces chipped. The stick gave through suddenly, and she lurched forward. Then, with a sigh, she drew the stick hard against shards to clear them from the damaged pane.

The other drunken woman looked their way. Looked Father Brennan up and down.

“Hey,” she called, blearily. “Are you a priest?”