“Père Brennan,” Chéri corrected themselves, nodding, offering a light smile. Through a fortuitous combination of youth, a bubbly personality and acute physical self awareness, Chéri’s smile was incredibly warm and intimate, even in its lighter form like in this case. The authenticity of their relief only added to the twinkle once could see in their eyes. Effortlessly, Chéri said with their facial expression what they wouldn’t say with their words: I am grateful to meet someone who understands me and is willing to make themselves understood.

Chéri absolutely notice the very gentlemanly pose the priest took and the time he took to evaluate his words, adding them to what they knew about Malachi.

Chéri nodded. Advice. They moved to a pew, where Chéri rested their luggage and sat with their legs together, the palms on top of heat other, both on one of their lap. They looked in front of them, trying to find the words, then turned to Malachi, their words now measured and clear “I have lost everything. I don’t know where to go. I will make some money, but my old life is over,” they said that with the hardness and the objectivity of someone who found this circumstance less than alien.