Page 1 of His Elder

1

SAMUEL

The knock came at 7:43 a.m., thirteen minutes late.

I pressed my palms flat against my thighs, smoothing out wrinkles that didn't exist in my black slacks. My scriptures sat squared on the corner of the desk, edges aligned with the wood grain. The apartment—our apartment, though Elder Morrison had only been here in body for the last three weeks—gleamed. I'd scrubbed the kitchen tiles at five-thirty, before my shower, after my prayer.

After my usual prayer.

"Elder Price?" President Dalton's voice carried through the door, warm and certain. Everything about President Dalton was certain. "May we come in?"

I stood, tugged my tie straight, and opened the door.

President Dalton filled the doorway, silver-haired and solid, his smile already in place. Behind him stood a stranger. Tall—taller than me by two inches, maybe three. Dark hair that wanted to curl at the temples despite obvious efforts togel it into submission. Hollow cheeks. A name tag that readElder Vancein the same black letters as mine, but somehow his looked... crooked. Not crooked. Just worn at the edges, like he'd been rubbing his thumb over it.

"Elder Price." President Dalton gripped my hand, his handshake firm and brief. "I trust you've been well?"

"Yes, President. Thank you."

"Good, good. The Lord provides." He stepped inside, and Elder Vance followed, carrying a single duffel bag and a beaten leather messenger bag that definitely wasn't from the approved missionary packing list. "This is Elder Elias Vance, transferring from the Madrid zone. Elder Vance, this is Elder Samuel Price. I'm confident you'll find him an exemplary companion. He's one of our finest—fluent in Spanish already, consistent baptisms, district leader material."

Heat crept up my neck. "I just try to serve, President."

"And you serve well." President Dalton clapped my shoulder, then turned to Elder Vance. "Elder Price will help you get oriented. I expect you'll learn a great deal from him."

Elder Vance's gaze swept the apartment—the spotless kitchen, the perfectly made twin beds across from one another, the laminated daily schedule I'd taped to the wall—and something flickered across his face. Amusement? Resignation?

"Sure," he said. "Looking forward to it."

President Dalton consulted his watch. "I'll leave you to get acquainted. Elder Vance, your Spanish is already solid, I'm told, so you should be teaching by the end of the week. Elder Price will brief you on your current investigators. You have the Moreno family on Thursday, yes?"

"Yes, President. Six o'clock."

"Excellent. Gentlemen." He shook our hands again, squeezed past Elder Vance, and disappeared down the stairwell.

The door clicked shut.

Silence pooled between us, thick and strange. Elder Vance dropped his duffel onto the bed on the left of the room—Morrison's old bed, my brain corrected automatically—and straightened, rolling his shoulders. Up close, I could see the shadows under his eyes, the wrinkled collar of his white shirt, the small silver stud in his left ear that he definitely wasn't supposed to still have.

"So," he said. "You're the golden boy."

My stomach tightened. "I don't—"

"Relax. Wasn't an insult." He unzipped the duffel, started pulling out clothes. White shirts, all of them creased. "Just an observation. Dalton practically glowed when he talked about you."

"President Dalton is kind."

"President Dalton is desperate." Elder Vance shoved the shirts into the empty drawer I'd cleared that morning. "Madrid zone's bleeding missionaries. Homesickness, 'worthiness issues,' whatever. Guess they figured Barcelona was far enough away for a fresh start."

I didn't know what to say to that, so I said nothing. Instead, I watched him unpack—no system, no order, just clothes and books and a battered sketchbook that he tossed onto the desk next to my aligned scriptures. The contrast made my teeth ache.

"We have district meeting in an hour," I managed. "And then we're scheduled for street contacting near Sagrada Família from ten to noon. After lunch—"

"Let me guess. More contacting? Maybe some service? Dinner with a member family who'll ask us a million questions about Utah?"

"We're having dinner with the Ramos family. They've been members for fifteen years and they're verykind."

"I'm sure they are." He sat on the bed, untied his shoes—scuffed black dress shoes that had probably been nice once—and looked up at me. His eyes were hazel, more green than brown in the morning light. "Look, Elder Price. I'm going to be straight with you."