Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You pulled your coat tight around your body. 

The early spring air had been tolerable on the coast, but now that you were smack-dab in the Atlantic, it wasn’t as fun. However, you hoped that, come what may, summer on Crockett Island kept a modicum of this chill or otherwise wasn’t capable of roasting you completely.

Your neighbors had been wary, at best, about a newcomer. But, like yourself, warmed up after a few weeks of acclimatizing. You moved into one of the (many) abandoned houses on the island at a reasonable price, although you were quick to realize when they said “fixer-upper”, they meant “one visit from an inspector away from foreclosure.” It was a quaint little place, though, and the damp smell of the ocean and old wood made for a pleasurable homecoming each night.

Your days, often, were relegated to cleaning up the school. Still too much of a stranger to help with teaching the kids, not local enough for anything else, you’d become a custodian of the space. You didn’t mind. Paid well enough, kept you friendly with the neighbors, inspired you to clean up your own house. 

That Miss Keane. Christ Almighty, that woman was your shadow when you began. Still remained so, though a bit more diluted now. At least she trusted you with the keys to the cleaning supplies, now. Made cleaning up a hell of a lot easier, and kept you from muttering at least one less curse to her under your breath. You swore she got younger each day you saw her, and you attributed that to her gaining your strength from beating you down so often. A passive-aggressive smile and an “oh, honey,” took two years of your life away and smoothed her wrinkles.

Luckily, despite the nature of the island, Beverly Keane was the only trouble you had. 

You’d thought, perhaps, the community being so religious would worm its way in as a troublesome grub. But, no. In fact, you remembered when you were first introduced to Father Paul Hill quite fondly.

“Ah, a wayward soul,” he’d smiled. “I hear you’re the new addition to the island. Welcome, I’m Father Paul Hill.”

“Thank you, uh, Father,” you’d stumbled over the title. It wasn’t quick and easy, it wasn’t your nature, but you hated to seem rude.

He’d caught it, “Might I ask if I’ll see you at the church?”

“Sorry, it’s not my cup of tea.”

He nodded, smiling again, his cheeks and eyes creasing. You turning him down didn’t seem to be a slight. If he wouldn’t pass judgment, neither would you. 

“Well,” he held out his hand for a shake, “I never did catch your name.”

You told it to him, garnering another squinty smile, and shook his hand. His grip was firm, but friendly. You couldn’t deny that the touch made your chest flutter, though you couldn’t exactly place it. He was older, handsome, and seemingly kind, but there was something…else. Like a sixth sense, almost, that something wasn’t what it seemed. A look in the eye that told you the same thing ‘don’t stare too closely at trees in the night’ did. It could be nothing, it could be something. 

He repeated your name as he put his other hand over yours. You couldn’t shake the feeling like he wanted to remember you. The way he said your name, melodic and sure, like Ecclesiastes or Job. You understood why the island was so religious. With a priest like that, undoubtedly the sermons would drive directly at your heart. Narratives always required a gorgeous narrator, someone you could trust to sell you a story, and it seemed Father Paul Hill was that narrator.

“I am sorry,” his hands fell away. “I’ve got to attend to some things in the Rectory, but I trust we’ll see each other again.”

You nodded, and he offered a wave goodbye as he departed. Leaving you on the path home alone and wondering.

Comparable to your past, Father Paul seemed less like a salesman. You couldn’t put your finger on what, exactly, he was more like. But he didn’t seem to carry religion in a briefcase, and that was all that mattered. 

When you’d learned through Erin Greene that Miss Keane was Father Paul’s right-hand woman, you couldn’t help but laugh.

“Please, she seems like she’d drink the kool-aid and he’s…”

“I don’t know, he kinda resembles Jim Jones, don’t ya think?”

“Don’t you go to the church?”

Erin had waved off the accusation, chuckling. It was good to see her smiling, after everything she’d been through. You hadn’t become fast friends, but you became them when it mattered. She had swooped in after a particularly vicious reaming from Miss Keane to invite you for a drink at her place. She specified coffee or tea, not alcohol, since she was expecting. That night, with little else to do, you went over. You talked. You asked her about her baby and her dreams of the future. They were thoughtful and cliche all at once, just as yours were, but both of you nursed the ideas as if they were unique relics.

But you weren’t her go-to. Riley Flynn, who gave you a strange feeling despite his best efforts, was. Considerate and disillusioned, you liked him well enough. There were a few nights that the three of you talked about life on Erin’s porch. When the night ended, the three of you broke -- went your separate ways, each to different parts of the island. Shattered pottery they’d find one day. Maybe, if they ever thought to dredge the shores of Crockett Island. 

But when all was said and done, you were still the outsider. You couldn’t understand the intricacies of Sarah and Mildred Gunning’s relationship, the childhood recollections of smoking pot in the northern part of the island, the great oil disaster and how it affected the economy and life of the island. Riley and Erin had been gone for a time, but they were here before, and they are here again.

You were only here now and, for that, more often than not, you would find yourself alone. Alone, you would work. Alone, you would walk. Alone, you would sleep.

You didn’t mind it, of course. Part of your moving to Crockett Island was, in fact, to be alone. To start anew, or to continue in a better direction. Disconnected with only one way in or out, it was like a white-collar prison. The benefits distracted you enough from what you were really there for, that it just felt like a vacation.

You’d taken, on your days off or on your off-days, to walking aimlessly about the island. You would discover all these locations that Erin and Riley talked about, that you heard dropping from teen and adult lips like the only place on earth was Crockett Island, or else be doomed to be an outsider forever. 

Today, you found yourself walking the path near St. Patrick’s Church. The small-town letterboard, with 4s for As and 0s for Os that had probably been broken or stolen, spelled out the upcoming Ash Wednesday gathering. The Crock Pot Luck, which you’d heard being touted around as the best festival ever, would occur on the same day. You weren’t sure if you would attend the Ash Wednesday service as a result. Would it hurt to just be in the pews for one day?

“Oh! Well, hello.”

You turn your head to see Father Paul walking out of the church, adjusting his shirt.

“Hey, Father.”

He pointed at the letterboard, “Catch your eye?”

“I’ll admit, yes,” you shrug loosely. “But I’m not Catholic.”

“I don’t suspect you’re anything other than you are,” Father Paul smiled softly. 

He walked down the rest of the stairs until he was standing beside you, studying the 4sh Wednesday. He put a hand on his hip.

“You don’t need to be Catholic to listen to God’s words,” he said. “They are meant for everyone. But, again, I won’t pressure you.”

You turned to look at him, observing his profile. The alert, yet wisened, dark brown eyes. They stared at the board like merely looking at the tainted or misplaced letters could reveal a prophetic vision. The tense lines around his mouth, time spent either smiling or grimacing. The dark hair, unkempt today, framing his face like shadow. That twisting feeling in your stomach was back, fear or pleasure. You didn’t want to ask anyone what the feeling could be. The outsider with a distaste, or worse, a taboo crush, for the local priest. It wouldn’t look good for anyone, and Miss Keane didn’t need any more fuel for the pyre.

“What even happens during this service? I know the ash marking on the forehead, and a few choice words. But…” You trailed off.

Father Paul shifted his gaze to you, reading you as you did to him. Do unto others. He radiated sanctity in Christ like a mirage on a hot road. His brows knit as he smiled. Always smiling. 

“You’re just about right,” there was humor in his voice. “Gospel, a few choice words, the ashes. The Eucharist, although you wouldn’t be receiving that unless you’ve given yourself to Christ.”

The latter half of the sentence is almost mumbled, and you weren’t sure if it was Catholic guilt on his behalf or something else. He didn’t seem the type to enjoy turning people away, perhaps that was it. 

“And then the Crock Pot Luck,” you tacked on.

Father Paul laughed, and a smile crawled onto your face at the sound of it. It seemed right at home with the incense and regalia of the Catholic religion: deep, rattling, beautiful. Oh, he is new but his congregation must be devoted. 

“Yes, yes, and then the Crock Pot Luck. I had a feeling you hadn’t escaped all the chatter surrounding that.”

“How could I?” You softly exhaled through your nose, shaking your head. “I’ve not been to a church in…I’m not even sure how long. I think the people’ll think it’s a miracle if they see me in those pews.”

“Maybe it will be.”

The tone of his voice, like something divine had been revealed to him and he was still drunk on the milk and honey, made you look at him anew. 

“There are many miracles in life,” he quickly added, looking back at the board. “But the real miracle would be getting new letters.”

You chuckled, despite it all, “Yeah.”

You didn’t catch when he looked at you, your eyes glued to the board. Like you’d find the answer you were looking for anywhere but with Him. With him. 

He felt that way upon first meeting you, though he wasn’t sure you knew. Had he hid it so well? He had gotten so good at lying. 

A wayward soul, new to the island. In time for His Angel’s blessing. You, too, could be saved. It was divine providence that brought you to him now, and he would not turn away that sign, he would not deny you your gift. But, like Riley and Sarah, there was a hesitancy about you. He wouldn’t let them slip through, and he wouldn’t let you either.

Every service, he would look for you in the pews. Hoping, praying, that your ‘cup of tea’ would grow cold and you’d find warmth in St. Patrick’s. He didn’t need you to be a believer, he only wanted you close. The Angel had plans, the Angel was hungry, and he couldn’t save them but he could save you. He would save you. Saving. You. They were all he could think about these days, and God bless Millie and Sarah. God bless them, but there you were. He’d not seen a brighter light since the sun beyond His Angel’s cave, like God Himself was directing him to you. He felt conflicted, as he did with Millie, but perhaps things would be different now. Could be. 

He said your name, pulling you back to him, “It would be a pleasure to see you at St. Patrick’s.”

And pulled you were, “I’ll see if I can’t find the time.”

It wasn’t too long after parting with Father Paul that you heard about the approaching storm. The news of it was slow, yet everywhere, as your eyes opened to boarded windows and hidden bikes. A tension you hadn’t realized had taken over the entire town. You weren’t sure how you’d been blind to it, but the morning had been interesting, to say the least. And still it surprised you that the priest hadn’t told you about the storm. Did he know? Was he a siren upon the pulpit luring those who believed God could save them from a ravaging storm? Or was he simply a man who wanted to laugh about missing letters and a hesitant lamb? You still weren’t sure exactly how to feel about him.

You were quick to begin preparing your own house for the storm. Your neighbors were very considerate, giving wood and trash bags, duct tape and chains. While it was certainly resembling a prison more and more, with each addition, you were grateful to them. 

It was now early evening and you sat beside Erin and Riley on her porch, drinking tea and making small talk. The rain has begun, the wind shaking the trees. But, for now, you’re dry and warm.

“Both of you picked a great time to come back to the island,” Erin had teased. 

Conversation naturally flowed from the weather to work, avoiding everything that led Riley back here, led you to move here in the first place. It wasn’t that they were taboo subjects, you thought. You weren’t entirely sure what Riley’s story was -- and whatever it was, it didn’t seem to affect his kindness toward you or Erin. And neither he nor Erin seemed remarkably concerned with why you had arrived, either. You were here, all of you, and that was enough. Maybe on a darker, freer night those stories would be shared. But, for now, on the precipice of a storm, it didn’t seem so bad to just talk about Miss Keane and the differences in childhoods.

Sheriff Hassan pulled up in front of the porch, rolling his window down. Craning his body forward, he flicked his eyes between the three of you.

“Checking to make sure you’re all set, and to let you know that the church is open for anyone needing to take shelter.”

You all nodded, thanking him. He didn’t seem to enjoy doing these rounds, and you wonder if he’d be holed up at home, the grocery store, or the church. Or if, you likely imagined, he would drive through the storm. He was friendly and determined, both of which pointed toward wind and rain battering him tonight, neither of which convinced you he seemed to mind.

Soon enough, it was time for the three of you to break. Riley was expected home at a certain time, and Erin wanted to get some sleep before the storm hit. You weren’t sure what you would do in the meantime, but you knew you should be getting home. 

Some folks were still out, but so many of them had retired early. It was a vacuum quiet, and you couldn’t recall if the birds and insects were typically loud at this time of day. But there weren’t any out now. Even inland, you could hear the tides. The wind. The rain.

Taking your route home, you passed Hassan once more. You raised your hand in greeting, and a flicker of a smile crossed his face. It made you hope, nearly pray, that the storm was only going to be this.

You heard your name called and, turning, you saw Father Paul readjusting his satchel.

You slowed down for him, and he hastened his pace to catch up. It seemed almost youthful, that action. You could feel the phantom backpack weighing you down as you waited for a friend after school. Water dripped from his hair, and you wondered if, like you, the progression of this storm had surprised him. Neither of you had an umbrella.

Once he’d gotten to your side, you both fell into an easy lockstep.

“How’ve you been, Father?”

He watched his feet as he walked, his eyes crinkling at your words, “Oh, busy. Miss Keane and I had to board up the church and rectory. I’m grateful for her help, I doubt I would have gotten much done before the storm hit without her.”

You tried to keep your opinions to yourself, “Looks like this’ll be our first Crockett Island storm. We’re getting the full experience.”

He stammered, but caught himself, “Y-yes, yes. I pray it's mild. They usually are. I hear.”

Father Paul lifted his head just enough to watch the skies. His brow furrowed, his eyes squinted, it was useless to defend against the rain.

“Are you going to be in the church?”

The question, it seemed, caught him off guard. Pulled him out of wherever his mind started to go. 

“Of course, I want to be there for my congregants, to make sure they’re safe,” he looked up at you. “Will you be joining us there?”

You shook your head, “No, luckily the Flynns helped me board up my place. I just hope the building itself is fine. Otherwise I’ll just have very secure windowpanes amidst the rubble.”

A bark of a laugh escaped the priest. He wrung his hands on his bag’s shoulder strap, his cheeks creasing, “That would be very unfortunate. I’ll pray your house is load-bearing.”

“Thank you,” you smiled. His happiness was, it seemed, infectious.

You both walked in quiet for a while, the gravel crunching under-foot and the intermittent sound of his bag’s zippers clinking against each other. You were struck by how comfortable it felt, this quiet. This proximity. That lingering doubt, that shadowy blight that crept in when he touched your hands or looked you in the eyes, that…paled in comparison to this. The occasional desire you’d bump shoulders, just to hear him laugh or see his toothy grin.

You had to stop yourself. You weren’t sure if you were in love, but you knew this wasn’t a feeling you should harbor. He is a priest. You…well, he had said it best: you are only what you are. 

You cleared your throat, “So where are you headed? Isn’t the church the other way?”

“Well,” he looked up the road, maybe embarrassed he’d been caught. “I’d thought about seeing you home safely. But, if it bothers you, I can say my good-byes and good lucks now.”

He turned his gaze to you, expectant. For the first time, it seemed like the storm was getting to him. He shifted his weight to a dominant leg, his head slightly tilted as he waited.

“I don’t want you to be soaked by the time you…head back to the church.”

His face didn’t betray much. You thought you saw a twitch of recognition, a corner of a lip or a tensing of an eyelid, but he was so unchanged. 

“I’ll be alright, Father,” you said.

“Then,” he let a smile soften his expression, “God be with you. I’ll be praying for you.”

Chapter Text

You’d woken up to an odd feeling, one you couldn’t put your finger on and teetered on the tip of your tongue. Unsung, unknown, but there nonetheless. The calm after a storm when you know you’re facing sure destruction. Did you survive the night? Or, when you open your door, do you find you’re just in a dream?

When you’d found yourself staring down at the beach, alongside your neighbors, did you begin to formulate that feeling in your mouth. It still had no name, but it tasted like decay and it tainted your saliva as you swallowed back discomfort. You had never seen something like this before, and for that, you wished you were but in a dream.

The ocean tides drew and returned stiff corpses of cats. The stench rolled across the sands and up to your knees in a way only the smell of death could. Sopping, mildewy, wet death. You hadn't recalled hearing anything in the night, but how impossible of a task that would be with the howling winds, the panes of your windows shuddering like you against the sudden cold. You tried to wrack your brain: had there really been so many ferals on the island? You couldn't recall, but there they were before you: no longer mewing for scraps or batting at birds.

You were afraid to approach them. Sheriff Hassan and Mayor Scarborough were not, although even in their duties you could tell they were disgusted. Who wouldn't be? You were only glad the bodies lining the shore weren't human, but it did little to assuage your discomfort.

Even more discomforting was the fact that this was an island-wide affair. It seemed everyone had either heard, or smelled, the news and had come to see for themselves. Rumblings of "remember the spill?" and "damn crazy storm" washed over the gathering crowd. All the words were muffled behind sweater sleeves or white-knuckled fists. Hands clasped together, pinching the nose and mouth and hardly breathing, this wasn't a church service you had intended on attending. And yet, like them, here you were. Praying, or cursing, a God capable of this. Do we feel blessed at His mercy? Or do we spurn His grotesque designs?

Your eyes fell on Father Paul, his hands and body taut as he surveyed the scene. You wondered what he, of all of them, was thinking now. Do priests waver in their faith because of innocent animals' deaths? Everything about Father Paul made it seem he would require something far greater to disturb his faith, though it took just about this to disturb him generally. The wrinkles and smile-lines were replaced with, what you suspected was, horror. He kept his distance, but his eyes seemed to tentatively caress the corpses. Last rites without a rosary and a guiding hand. If he believed animals, these mangy cats, were pure enough for Heaven, did it bother him that they'd drowned in such a great Flood? You seemed to recall the Flood was to wash away the dissidents and unrepentant sinners. You, unlike them, had survived. Do you wish it were still just a dream?

You had thought, as time passed, the stench of the storm would fade from your nostrils and peoples' breath.

Instead, it mingled with the growing, nauseatingly nostalgic smell of the Crock Pot Luck. Your stomach turned and you salivated, though you weren't entirely sure for what. But the Pot Luck meant you had a choice to make: it's Ash Wednesday. With the storm, and seeing Father Paul's pallid face turned to the dead, would you extend him a moment of peace and attend the service? Was it really for him, at this point? You couldn't say.

As you walked toward St. Patrick's, you saw a modest swarm of folk wandering into the church. From afar, you could see Leeza Scarborough chatting idly with Miss Keane. At least you wouldn't have to immediately explain your presence to her. As the entry started to turn into a trickle, in which you would be one of the stragglers, you could feel yourself slow. A sudden desire to cling to relative anonymity, you weren't sure if you wanted to take this chance. If Father Paul was so desperate for your attendance, he could call on you. He felt like the type that would do so. So why were you here? Hm?

Nobody would miss you.

But, again, you made it through the storm.

You walked to the church stairs, looking at the old building. Painting peeling, wood warping. It was a miracle of God, it must have been, that the church survived. Let alone that it was passable as a shelter. Like everything else on this island, it looked so close to foreclosure. From the ocean, did this place look desolate? In a few years would this be a place some teenager would charter a small boat to just to see if it was haunted? Where would you be, then?

"Are you here for today's service?"

You'd recognize the voice anywhere. Unfortunately.

Miss Keane stood above you, one hand on the door. Dressed in her nun-white, you wondered if she would ever be considered a nun. A wife of Christ, a sister of…anyone other than herself. She just screamed acolyte, zealot.

"I am, yeah."

There was a smile, then. Likely self-satisfaction rather than congeniality. She stepped aside and you, not able to walk it back, walked in.

The church was unusually quiet, with Father Paul at the altar, his eyes scanning the room. You let your eyes wander, looking at those who chose to come. Those who were strangely missing. You knew little about Ash Wednesday, but it had seemed to you like there should be more here. Maybe the awful scene at the beach had coaxed people into believing there was no safety with Christ.

“...But I have to ask, why not every Sunday?”

An awkward chuckle hardly made it out of Father Paul’s mouth. It brought you back to him, a raised brow your only answer to his question.

“Christmas, Easter, I get that. But there’s also always an uptick around the start of Lent. Why is that? What’s so special about today?”

This wasn’t what you’d expected from him. Yes, this would inevitably lead to some sermon about belonging and love for thy community and Christ, but…

“Ash Wednesday, beginning of Lent. It’s hardly a crowd-pleaser. The beginning of repentance, making amends for our sins.”

He braced himself against the podium, dropping his head briefly before lifting it. Turning it.

“Sin.”

Looking at you.

You didn’t, couldn’t, pay attention to the rest of what he said. He'd long since passed you over, spared because you must have been smeared in lamb's blood but even then…he didn't know a thing about you. Would he have looked at anyone? You were amongst a sea of sinners and you weren't the only one who defected from God. So why you?

Before you truly realized, the flock rose to fall in line. To receive their ashes and Eucharist, which you were still unsure if you wished to receive either. Families tugged close and inched forward, like Father Paul’s blessing was as saintly as Christ’s. You supposed it wasn’t hard to tell why, if just a simple word had stopped you in your tracks.

As the line grew thinner, the pews filling once more, you saw Father Paul cast a look to you. Something almost pleading in his dark eyes, different than before, that you felt compelled to stand. Rising above your neighbors, you felt a little silly. Who were you to receive this? Why receive it at all? You found yourself asking this over and over again as you steadily approached Father Paul.
That unsettling feeling took over once more, worming its way deep into your intestines, as you kept his eye contact. He dipped his finger into the ashes.

“Remember,” and your name fell delicately from his lips, as hushed but powerful as a prayer in the dark, “you are dust. And to dust you shall return.”

His thumb delicately formed the cross on your forehead, a warm, lingering touch before you stepped away. That warmth, that heat, seared the ashes into your skin. Ingrained, forever marked.

You were one of few that partook in the Crock Pot Luck feast, as many refrained in honor of Lent. That didn't stop some from drinking, some others hoarding drink tickets like a miser. You wondered which cardinal sin that fell under: greed or gluttony? Envy likely abounded from those who saw these clenched fists and red cheeks.

Wandering from booth to booth, you made an effort not to swipe away the ashes from your sweating forehead. It was unbearably warm for an otherwise cooler spring, and you weren't the only one fanning yourself when in the sun. It was a ridiculous juxtaposition from the torrential rain. How long ago was that now? How long does an eye of the storm remain, because that's what this felt like. Suffocation before release.

Erin and Riley had taken to walking the Pot Luck together, laughing at old times and here's to new times and you were alright with that. You settled with a drink and a spot on a bench, people-watching required less energy expenditure.

"Is this seat taken?"

You squinted into the sun, your hand a visor, and smiled. Despite yourself, in spite of…

"Not at all, Father."

He sat a respectable distance, though you weren't sure you could say he was afraid of taking up space. There was a comfort in his posture that you very nearly envied, as he looked out at the Pot Luck and sighed.

"I was happy to see you," he said. "Although, I must confess something to you."

You shifted slightly.

"I saw you hesitate," he turned to you. "Outside of the church. What brought you in? What changed your mind?"

You chuckled awkwardly, hardly more than a breath, "Do you want the honest answer or a bullshit one?"

The word fell from your mouth easily, naturally. He couldn't help but smile at that particular honesty.

"I'd appreciate your full honesty," he returned softly.

"Well, Miss Keane saw me. She's hard to…"

"Disobey?"

"We'll go with that," you laughed lightly. Avoid was where you had been going, or something worse, but you would settle.

Father Paul nodded, "I've heard. Or, rather, experienced. She's a good woman. Adamant, passionate. I can see how they could be weaknesses, or something to dislike. Still, she's a child of God."

You sat in silence for a moment, community laughter and bickering wafting over you like smoke from the grills. It made you crave something, something you could take by shifting closer or saying anything. It was a sudden craving, almost as foreign and nauseating as at the shore.

Your name brought you back, and you saw that Father Paul was looking at you.

You didn't need to explain that you hadn't heard him. You weren't sure if he'd actually said anything. Your silence was an answer, and a conversation, both of which he seemed understanding of.

"The ashes suit you," he said.

"Oh," you instinctively reached a hand to your forehead. "It's weird."

His face creased in a smile, "'For I know well the plans I have in mind for you—oracle of the Lord—plans for your welfare and not for woe, so as to give you a future of hope.' Um, Jeremiah 29:11."

You must have had a look on your face, because he continued, "You are you, and I'm grateful you attended today. Getting the ashes, a sign of repentance and our need to turn to God during the trials of Lent…you're known. Known to your neighbors, known to God, known to me. There is a future of hope, for you, within this community. You didn't need to receive the ashes to receive that future, but was there any harm in it?"

"Father, I…I don't fully believe there is a God," and the words were sacrilegious coming from your ashen mind and from your lips, which had stumbled through hymns just a time ago.

Father Paul was quiet. His face pinched in a battle of sincerity and thought, until he finally spoke, "It's not a sin to be honest."

He clasped his hands in his lap, studying you. He seemed wholly at ease, as if delighting in sinners were his preferred past time. You were equals, predetermined ash that would sink into Crockett Island's dirt together. To be mingled and eaten by bugs and worms, not even worthy as carrion. Your souls, though, would they intertwine the same in Heaven or would you equality end in the bowels of insects?

"You've got a whole flock," you gesture to the festival goers. "What's one person?"

"What's a grain of sand on the shore?" Father Paul replied. "It seems insignificant, but have you ever actually tried to remove sand from the beach? No matter how small a pinch you take, more sand rushes into that vacuum. The whole beach, then, has to rectify that loss. You're not Catholic, and you don't want to be a member of this church, but you're a member of the community, regardless. As a shepherd, I can't justify caring only for my flock when I see others just beyond the pasture. There are wolves," and your name fell from his lips. A punctuation, not a continuation.

The matter, to Father Paul, was closed. You would be under his purview for as long as you resided on the island, and you…you took comfort in that. A strange comfort, a strange delight.

"So, what? Are you going to drop by my house to conduct bible study?"

He smiled toothily, boy-like, shark-like, you realized there was an odd dance across that line. He continued once the moment had passed, "Only if you'd like. I'd rather us remain friends than have me push you into a corner. I respect your atheism."

"We're friends?" You couldn't help but tease the point. A middle-aged priest on a crumbling island in a vast, cold ocean. What a friend.

"Do you not agree?"

You shrugged, "Well, I-I wouldn't say I disagree. I'll admit I like your company."

"As do I, that seems like the grounds of a friendship." He seemed proud of himself, if a priest could allow himself to feel pride.

You smiled, for what else could you do? He had the infectious charisma of someone you couldn't deny. His dark eyes didn't need to search yours, scouring you clean with just the held contact. You felt your chest burn, and you gulped, momentarily, for air. Had you settled closer to him?

And then a great scream.

Bloodcurdling couldn't accurately describe it, it was something you would now hear in the dark. In the forests when you'd go walking, in your head as you were on the cusp of sleep. You would feel it blacken your blood like a corrupting disease. The intonation demanded you never be the same person again.

Your hand shot out of its own accord, grabbing Father Paul's arm. To seek comfort, to protect, to caution. You couldn't say. It was only when the crowd, always a crowd, flocked toward the sound that the two of you split apart. Rising, to join this tidal wave, to the wailing.

Of a man.

Of great infamy, across the island. Joe Collie, if you remembered correctly, and you were sure you did. He sobbed over the foaming-mouth, desiccated body of his dog. His falling tears and frantic saliva created a horrible, pathetic figure for all of Crockett Island to witness. His vocal cords were tearing, segmenting in rage as he hurled accusations at Miss Keane.

Well, and you knew like everybody that she was a mean bitch but…

And you felt outside of it all. At the edge of the crowd, at the edge of understanding, at the edge of consciousness. This was horrific, whoever had done it. You wouldn't let yourself get pulled to accusations as quick as Joe Collie, but again, you weren't over the body of someone you had loved so fiercely dearly.

You looked to Father Paul, who watched with a sort of composure. As if he were merely a spectator, one who'd lived far worse, and you felt a part of you recoil. Where was the same horror from the morning after the storm? He didn't look sickly, he didn't look pained. Where was his compassion, you wondered?

Sheriff Hassan tried to comfort Joe Collie, but to little avail. The man was inconsolable, as he had every right to be. Or had he? You let your eyes wander the crowd, and you saw that so many of them carried the same look in their eye that Father Paul did. Resignation. Shock, yes, but that was quickly fading. Women clutched their necklaces and the men watched on, but there was very little love toward Joe Collie. Again you felt outside of it all.

Shortly after the dog was pronounced dead, Pike you'd learned was the name, the smell of food made you sick. You, like everyone, wanted to be anywhere else but at the Pot Luck. Everyone vanished home, and you were intent to follow them.

Father Paul had offered to walk you home, to give you comfort in this trying time. A scripture was on his tongue that you melted away with a shake of your head. You didn't know if comfort was something he could give, or at the very least if it was something you wanted in that moment. The island was rotting before your very eyes, the dead piling up in a cruel manner, and you felt disgusting for craving anything.

He'd understood, he'd shrugged it off, he'd consoled those who requested his being there.

And you felt, if you wished to be honest, like a wolf was closing in on you.

It was uncomfortable, and for the first time in your life you understood why people said that idle hands are the devil's plaything. You had no desire for anything nefarious, but you couldn't deny that sitting, alone, in your home only worsened this feeling of being hunted.

The door to the rectory opened before you could muster the courage to knock a second time, before you'd had the wherewithal to turn away before the first. The ash had been washed off of Father Paul's forehead, as yours had been. The bystander effect of watching this villainized man cradling his poisoned dog was the greatest sin. No smear on your skin could absolve you. It was make-believe.

"Come in."

Despite the curtains being drawn, the rectory was dim. All dark browns and greens and shadow. Father Paul blended in, emerging out of it only when the light caught him or you cared enough to watch his movements.

"How can I help?"

"Friend to friend?" You said, and you saw him soften, "I don't need a priest, I just want someone to talk to. Just a normal moment."

"I'd be happy to," he smiled gently. "As a friend, I do need to tell you I've got a meeting tonight. But I won't force you out."

"A meeting?"

"Privileged," his hands raised, "information, I'm afraid."

You nodded. Probably a neighbor in crisis, in need, "When?"

"Don't worry about that, just sit. I can put on some coffee, tea, water? Friend to friend, I don't have alcohol but if you're truly desperate I could bring out the sacrament," he shakily chuckled.

"I think I've blasphemed enough for the day," you matched the laugh. "Coffee sounds good, though. Thank you."

He nodded, preparing the drinks, and kept silent. You sat on the sofa, staring down at your hands. The sounds of him in the kitchenette beside you were ambient. Talking felt like a disruption, but that's what you were here for, wasn't it?

"What brought you to Crockett?"

"Uh, well," he cleared his throat. "I was sent here. St. Patrick's was under Monsignor Pruitt's care. You'd recognize his name from the uh, dedication for the rec center. He was a very old man. Dedicated to his people, and to his faith. He died, or is at least presumed dead."

"What happened to him?"

"He visited the Holy Land and he, uh, was suffering from a type of dementia."

"What a horrible way to go," you said, once you noticed that Father Paul wasn't offering anything else on the subject. "Really. Did he have any family?"

"No," his voice cracked slightly. You turned to look at him, but nothing was obvious. His back turned to you, the coffee maker whirring. Maybe you'd imagined it. "No. We take a vow, we—men like Monsignor Pruitt give themselves over to Christ completely. We are celibate, we are faithful. We're meant to serve humanity, not ourselves."

You looked back down at your hands, "That's a commitment."

"It is, but not an unwelcome one."

He moved, standing in front of you, holding out a coffee cup. Its steam washed across your face as you took it for yourself.

"Do you mind?"

Father Paul gestured to the spot beside you, to which you shook your head.

Unlike the bench, the sofa was innately more intimate. His knee brushed against yours when he sat, and he straightened his posture to refrain from doing so again.

"How old were you when you joined the priesthood?"

"Is this what you wanted to talk about?" He chuckled, deflecting the question but, regardless, bringing up the greater point.

"I think its obvious what I want to talk about, but even the thought of it…" You blew on your coffee, watching the steam curl in the light.

"'Two are better than one,' for they can share the toil. Not exactly the verse but," he looked at you. "It's better to be honest with yourself, and with me. What's happened, it's not something to keep inside and let destroy you."

You let out a sharp laugh, "I wouldn't say this is destroying me, Father. Making me uncomfortable? Yes. I don't want to see another dead animal for as long as I live, at least not in this…proximity again."

"What about it bothers you?"

"What about it doesn't?" You were quick to reply, looking at him. "A storm couldn't have just…killed all of those cats. That was biblical, Paul, and I-I-I don't blame everyone for being extremely weirded out by it. It was really fucking weird!"

Father Paul tried not to react blatantly to your language and his name, "It was weird, yes. Biblical, I'm not so sure. Nature runs its course, no matter how traumatizing or grotesque. We were protected, they were not. It is tragic, it's not something to feel embarrassed about finding tragic. And with Joe Collie's dog —"

"Pike."

"Pike. That was disturbing to witness, and heartbreaking to be near. You're only human for your reactions to these things."

"No one helped him."

"Would you have felt better if someone did?"

"Yeah. Maybe. I don't know, hindsight, foresight, whatever. It just felt wrong to be standing there while he was just…"

"So why didn't you help him?"

"Me?"

Father Paul didn't waver. He didn't need to. You wavered enough, you had wavered before you even thought about coming to the rectory. Why didn't you? The Sheriff was alone in his consolations. He was doing his duty. But so much time before Sarah walked up…time you could have stepped in, helped disperse the crowd, helped give a lending hand to Joe Collie. There was little you could do for Pike, but that shouldn't have stopped you. Why didn't you?

"Why didn't you?"

Father Paul wasn't surprised that you'd turned the question to him, as if he'd been expecting it. Maybe he'd been going through the same thoughts as you.

"That's the question, isn't it? For all intents and purposes, Sheriff Hassan, Dr. Gunning, and I…" his voice trailed for a moment. "We're the relative leaders of the community. Mayor Scarborough, Wade, as well. We should have all stepped in, if only to prevent the rest of you from feeling this way. We didn't. And now I, like you, have regret."

"Do you actually regret it?"

"I regret that on today, of all days, something like that happened. Joe Collie, for all his sins, and Pike, for his innocence, didn't deserve such a cruelty."

The words hung in the air, as the two of you drank your coffee. In the span of your conversation, in the quiet between, Father Paul had relaxed once more beside you. Your legs knocked against each other, but neither of you moved.

"Thank you for the coffee."

"There's plenty more, should you ever find yourself this way again," he replied softly.

"I'll keep it in mind."

Over the course of the following four days, little had changed in the way of the island's interactions. At school, the students gossiped about who's who, who's not, and who could have killed the dog. The teachers did the same, save Miss Keane who did little to deny her involvement. It didn't matter, of course. Most people knew who killed the dog. Most people didn't care.

Father Paul and you would bump into each other on occasion, would stand side-by-side and chat in the middle of a street. You'd grown fonder of him as the minutes turned to hours, to when Miss Keane would see you leave the rectory and stammer over whether to congratulate you on your newfound religion. Faith in him? You had it only in the way that a friend would, that you knew they could be a great person if they put their mind to it. That they make you happy, in a way you hadn't felt in a while. God played no part here, no single verse beyond what tumbled from Father Paul's lips during your conversations. And still yet, it didn't feel like Him speaking. The priest had a way with words that convinced you that he'd crafted the gospels to fit what advice was needed in that moment.

You didn't go to church. You wake in the mornings and scrub your forehead like its Wednesday for eternity, in the dark it was impossible to tell if your fingers came back smudged or merely sweaty. But you'd found a friend, a friend who would listen to your stories about your life before. Who would share his, likewise, although it felt like he was omitting sections of his autobiography. For your sake, or his, you couldn't say.

It was Sunday when the normalcy you'd become acquainted with began to tremble.

It began with Leeza Scarborough walking. Out of the church, down the streets. To the Gunnings' to be checked by Sarah that this miracle was, in fact, not a fluke. It was surreal to see, like someone had possessed Leeza's body. Her wheelchair seemed more and more like an anchor as it trailed behind her, her parents perpetually startled as they coaxed her to safety.

The island was abuzz with the news. Father Paul Hill conducted a miracle! St. Patrick's was, indeed, holy ground and Leeza was blessed. It felt fantastical. It felt, honestly, like the antithesis to what you'd come to view Crockett and Father Paul as. It wasn't the kind of religion you enjoyed, and it wasn't the kind of man you wanted to associate with, if this were to become a regular occurrence.

That evening, like you'd become accustomed to do, you knocked on the rectory door.

After your first visit, you'd made it clear your house was not presentable to guests. He'd laughed at that, saying it was likely comparable to the state of the rectory, but you wouldn't budge. Only saying, "Maybe next time." Which never came. He seemed a gracious host, and all too eager to invite you in.

When he opened the door tonight, he held up a hand as he coughed into his sleeve.

"Sorry," he wheezed, almost imperceptibly, recovering with a soft smile. "Sorry, it's very nice to see you."

"You alright?" You asked, walking in. You stood in the center of the room, watching as he closed the door.

He waved the concern away, "I think I might just be catching a cold. It's nothing to worry about."

"Right."

You gave a cursory glance around the room, and he gestured for you to take a seat. You don't take it.

"So what's this I've been hearing about Leeza Scarborough?"

His eyes lit up, but otherwise he seemed unphased, "I'm reserving my judgments until her parents are satisfied. I heard they were going to the mainland to get her thoroughly examined. By all accounts, it's a medical miracle."

"And you're dismissing any claims that you're the cause of that miracle?"

"Is that what people are saying?"

"Yeah, it's all anyone is saying. Your biggest supporter being Beverly Keane, naturally."

"You don't sound…"

"I'm not. Am I happy for Leeza, do I want this to be real? Of course. I just don't like the slippery slope I'm looking at."

He said your name like he was coaxing you back, "I promise you, I have no intentions of being labeled a miracle worker, or of being patronized. I got caught up in the moment, and I firmly believe that God is on her side."

"But?"

He shook his head, "I don't claim to be doing anything other than God's work."

"You should tell Miss Keane that."

"Is that what you came here for?"

"I just wanted to ask you about it."

"It sounds more like you're chastising me."

You slumped onto the sofa, "It's been a strange week."

He sat beside you, as he'd grown more comfortable doing. Knees touching had steadily become shoes pressed against each other. You were blind to it, in a way, and maybe so was he, this desperate need to be together. Like a bonded pair of stray cats. You had to shake the vision of you both dead on the shore from your mind.

He leaned his leg against yours, pressing to get your attention. When you looked over at him, he smiled softly, your name a murmur, "Trust me. I want nothing but the best for the people here. I come to you, and them, as myself. Nothing other than what I am."

"And what are you?" Your voice is quiet.

"An imperfect man," he replied simply.

His eyes held yours, a moment. Two. Three. Before he let you go.

You do want to trust him. You respect him, and thus that feels like the natural progression. But how could you? You cannot help but feel there's something dishonest about him. A fundamental wrong that, though you might be willing to overlook it, you just can't forget. From the moment you met, to now. He is sincere, he is kind, he is not a wolf waiting in the shadows for the shepherd to turn his back. No, maybe he is just so desperate and caring that that is his wrong. It is not his right to watch over everyone's lives, as pathetic a hamartia that may turn out to be.

"Father."

"Hm?"

You stand up, unsure exactly of what to say. Maybe Father Paul being a miracle worker isn't the slippery slope you fear so much, rather than your own. What are you doing with this man? What do either of you want from this? You were a non-believer, lest you forget, that has continuously sought camaraderie and refuge with a priest.

He rose to stand next to you, concern creasing his brow, "What is it?"

Hesitantly, he reached out a hand. Bringing it slowly to your face, he brushed his knuckles against your cheek. If you had asked him then, he wouldn't have been able to say why.

"I don't know if I can trust you," your voice is hardly above a whisper. And is it that you can't trust him, or you can't trust you?

He stopped. His face pinching slightly, a resignation to a wound, however old. He tapped his knuckles gently against your jaw before letting them fall softly from you.