Page 16 of His Elder

"We have an appointment Saturday," Vance said quietly. "Art student. Maria Castellanos. She's interested in learning more about our beliefs regarding family."

Truth and lies, woven together so seamlessly I almost believed it myself. Almost forgot the way Maria had challenged us, the way Vance had agreed with her criticisms, the fury I'd felt walking back to the apartment in silence.

Kempton studied us for a long, uncomfortable moment.

"Very well," he said finally. "I expect to hear a full report on Saturday's discussion at next week's meeting. And Elder Vance?"

"Yes?"

"The mission field is not an art studio. Your calling is to preach the gospel with every breath, every moment. Not to pursue, uh,creative hobbieson the Lord's time." He smiled, and it was the smile of a man who believed absolutely in his own righteousness. "I trust you understand the difference between building the kingdom and building your portfolio."

"I understand." Vance's voice had gone dead. Empty.

"Excellent." Kempton clapped his hands together, the sound sharp in the small room. "Now. Let's discuss our district goals for the coming week. Elder Price, why don't you start us off?"

5

SAMUEL

Monday mornings had always felt sacred to me. P-Day—preparation day—was a gift from God after six grueling days of service, a chance to wash clothes, write letters, recharge for the week ahead. I'd always approached it the way I approached everything: with a schedule, a plan, a checklist of tasks to accomplish before evening companionship study.

Vance approached it like a drowning man reaching for air.

"I need to find an internet café," he said over breakfast—instant oats and oranges I'd picked up Saturday at the market. "First thing."

I glanced up from my scripture study. I'd been reading Mosiah chapter 2, King Benjamin's address about service, but the words kept sliding off my brain. I'd slept poorly. Kept thinking about Kempton's face when I'd lied for Vance, about the way Vance had sat so still afterward, barely breathing.

"There's one near Las Ramblas," I said. "We can go after—"

"Now." Vance stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. "I need to check my email now."

Something in his voice made me set the scriptures aside. Not the usual defiance or sarcasm. This was rawer. Almost desperate.

"Okay," I said carefully. "Give me five minutes to change."

The café was dim and crowded, smelling of burnt coffee and cigarette smoke that clung to everything despite the no-smoking signs on the walls. A dozen computer terminals lined the walls, most occupied by backpackers and students hunched over keyboards, their faces lit blue-white by the screens.

I paid for an hour at the counter—two euros each—and we claimed terminals near the back. Vance logged in immediately, his fingers flying across the keys with the kind of muscle memory that spoke of countless hours online back home. I watched him from the corner of my eye while I pulled up my own inbox, curiosity warring with the knowledge that I shouldn't pry.

My inbox loaded slowly. Three emails from Mother, each subject line more urgent than the last:How are you doing?thenPlease write backthenSamuel, I'm worried.One from Father, subject line blank. Two from my sister Rachel, probably filled with updates about her freshman year at BYU and questions about baptisms.

I opened Mother's most recent email first.

Dearest Samuel,

I hope this email finds you well and spiritually renewed. We haven't heard from you in two weeks, and I've been praying constantly that you're healthy and safe. Your father says I worry toomuch, but a mother's heart knows no rest when her son is so far away.

The guilt hit like a fist to the sternum. Two weeks. Had it really been that long since I'd written? The days blurred together out here—tracting, teaching, failing, trying again. Time moved differently on a mission. Faster and slower at once.

The ward held a special fast for the Madrid mission yesterday. Brother Hillman mentioned that several missionaries have been sent home early due to illness and discouragement. Please tell me you're taking care of yourself. Are you eating enough? Getting enough sleep? Your father wants to know if you need anything sent from home.

I could picture her at the computer in Father's study, worrying her bottom lip the way she always did when she was anxious. Probably wearing her temple recommend around her neck like a talisman.

Brother Jensen's son just received his mission call—Tokyo, Japan! The whole family is thrilled. Sister Jensen mentioned that their son speaks often of you, how you inspired him to prepare spiritually for his own mission. Your example continues to shine even from across the ocean, sweetheart.

The words should have filled me with warmth. Pride. This was why I was here—to be an example, to build the kingdom, to prove myself worthy of my family's legacy.

Instead, I felt hollow. Carved out.