Page 22 of His Elder

Brown lost it, coughing violently to cover his laughter.

"Elder Moss and I werevery thorough," Brown managed,voice strangled. "Really committed to the process. In and out, in and out, multiple times."

"Multiplesessions," Moss agreed solemnly, though his eyes gleamed. "We just kept knocking until she opened up for us."

A few missionaries in the back snorted. The sisters in front exchanged confused glances. President Dalton's smile had frozen in place, though whether he'd caught the innuendo or was just baffled by their stupidity was unclear.

I bit the inside of my cheek, hard.

Samuel sat beside me like a statue, his face cycling through several expressions. Confusion first, then dawning comprehension, then absolute horror.

"That's—" President Dalton cleared his throat. "That's wonderful, elders. Persistence is a virtue. Though perhaps we should discuss appropriate boundaries during our next district meeting."

Moss sat down, looking pleased with himself. Brown was still coughing.

I didn't dare look at Samuel. Couldn't. If I made eye contact, I'd lose it completely, and laughing during Zone Conference testimony meeting would probably earn me a one-way ticket back to Madrid. Or Nevada. Or the outer darkness, depending on who you asked.

But I felt it. The tremor running through Samuel beside me, the way his breathing had gone shallow and careful. The rigid set of his shoulders that screamedthis is not happening, I am not hearing this, these are not my fellow missionaries.

Someone cleared their throat. I glanced sideways.

Samuel's eyes cut toward me for half a second—just long enough for me to see the absolute disbelief there, the appalledcan you believe these idiotsthat he couldn't voice aloud.

I raised my eyebrows fractionally.Yep. That just happened.

His jaw twitched. He looked away quickly, but not before Icaught the tiniest quirk at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile. More like his body's involuntary response to the sheer absurdity.

It shouldn't have felt like a victory.

It did anyway.

President Dalton launched into his prepared talk about increasing baptismal goals and the importance of extending baptismal invitations on the first visit. I'd heard variations of this speech in Madrid. The metrics mattered more than the people. Numbers on a report meant success. Souls saved looked good in newsletters.

I pulled out my planning book—the one concession they'd let me keep—and flipped to a blank page in the back. My pencil moved without conscious thought. Quick lines. Dalton's profile, that manufactured warmth. The Zone Leaders flanking him like bodyguards protecting the brand.

Samuel shifted beside me. I felt his gaze, brief and sharp, but he didn't say anything.

The pencil kept moving. Moss and Brown in the back corner, still barely containing themselves. The sister missionaries in front, notes precise and colour-coded. The other elders, faces ranging from bored to devout to dead inside.

My pencil found Samuel.

The line of his jaw. The way he held his shoulders. The careful blankness he'd learned to wear like armour. I'd been drawing him, stealing moments during companion study or scripture time. Had a whole collection of sketches shoved between pages ofPreach My Gospellike contraband.

This one was different, though. Softer. The hint of thatalmost-smile still lingering at the corner of his mouth, the crack in his golden-boy facade.

"...and remember," Dalton was saying, "every soul is precious. Every investigator is a child of God, waiting to hear the truth that will bring them home."

Unless they're gay,I thought.Then they can fuck right off to outer darkness.

The bitterness surprised me. I'd thought I was past that, thought I'd made peace with the church's conditional love. But sitting here in this rented hall, surrounded by two dozen kids playing dress-up as soldiers of Christ, pushing a gospel that would damn half of them if they were honest about who they really were—

Maria's voice echoed in my head.What about families like mine?

Samuel's response.The gospel is for everyone.

The sketch darkened. My pencil pressed harder, adding shadows that didn't exist.

"Elder Vance."