Page 23 of His Elder

I looked up. President Dalton was watching me, expression patient but pointed.

"Yes, President?"

"I asked what you've learned this week."

Every eye in the room turned toward me. Samuel had gone very still beside me.

I closed the planning book carefully. Stood.

"I learned that people are more complicated than our discussions allow for," I said. "That sometimes the questions they ask don't have easy answers. And that maybe that's okay."

Dalton's smile didn't waver, but something shifted behind his eyes. "The gospel provides all the answers we need, Elder. We just have to have faith."

"Right." I sat down.

The moment stretched. Uncomfortable. I'd violated some unspoken rule, failed to perform gratitude and certainty.

"Thank you, Elder Vance." Dalton's tone suggested the opposite. "Let's remember that while questions are natural, the adversary uses doubt to lead us astray. Our testimonies must be firm. Unwavering."

More heads nodded. The sisters in front wrote that down, underlining it.

Samuel's hand moved fractionally closer to mine on the shared armrest between our chairs. Not touching. Just… there. A presence. Acknowledgment.

I didn't look at him.

During the break, missionaries clustered in small groups near tables laden with store-brand biscuits and weak lemonade. The social hierarchy was visible in the formations. Zone Leaders at the centre, surrounded by the ambitious and devout. Moss and Brown off to one side with the other slackers, trading stories. The sisters in their own tight circle, separate and untouchable.

Samuel headed toward the refreshments like a man with a mission. I followed, keeping the regulation distance.

"Unbelievable," he muttered as we reached the table.

"The talk or the testimony meeting?"

"Both." He grabbed a paper cup, filled it with lemonade. "Moss and Brown are going to get themselves sent home."

"Nah. They're harmless." I took a biscuit, examined it. Stale. "Dalton knows they're lazy, not wicked. There's a difference."

"Lazy is still breaking the rules."

"But it's theright kindof rule-breaking." I bit into thebiscuit. Definitely stale. "They're not committing serious transgressions. Just wasting time. Chasing girls. Fudging their numbers. All very normal, very forgivable missionary behaviour."

Samuel's jaw worked. "It's still wrong."

"Is it, though?" I kept my voice low, conversational. "Moss and Brown flirt with every woman under thirty. They're lazy, sure. But they're also practicing for what comes next. BYU. Dating. Temple marriage. The whole celestial breeding program."

His eyes cut toward me, sharp and startled.

I shrugged. "The church doesn't really care if they're perfect missionaries, Samuel. They care that they'restraightmissionaries. That they'll go home and make lots of perfect Mormon babies with nice returned-missionary wives. Their salvation isn't in question. Their orientation is already approved."

"That's not—" He stopped, throat working.

"Not what?" I leaned in fractionally. "Not true? Come on. You know the hierarchy. You've lived it your whole life. Moss can spend his entire mission half-assing the work and chasing skirts, and he'll still get a handshake from the bishop when he gets home. Because he'ssupposedto be interested in women. The church is counting on it. Banking on it."

Samuel's knuckles had gone white around his paper cup.

"But if either of us—" I bit down on the words, hard. Redirected. "If someone had thewrongkind of thoughts? The wrong kind of feelings? That's not just breaking mission rules. That's threatening the entire eternal plan. That's outer darkness material."

"Vance." His voice came out strangled. "Don't."