Page 8 of His Elder

"Why are you here?" Elder Price asked again, quieter now. "Really. If you don't believe, if you think it's all manipulation and sales tactics, why did you come?"

The honest answer stuck in my throat.Because my mother begged me. Because her marriage is falling apart and the church is the only thing holding her together and she thinks if I serve a mission, God will bless our family. Because I love her more than I hate this.

"Because I made a commitment," I said instead.

"That's not good enough."

"It's going to have to be."

Elder Price picked up his shoulder bag, his expression shuttered again. "We have three more buildings to tract this afternoon. Let's go."

"Elder Price—"

"Let's. Go."

He walked away, his back rigid, his hands clenched around his bag straps.

I sat on the bench for another minute, watching the pigeons, feeling the afternoon sun on my face.

Sixteen months, I thought.How the hell am I going to survive sixteen months?

Then I got up and followed him.

3

ELIAS

Elder Price didn't speak to me for the rest of the afternoon. We knocked doors in three more buildings—forty-two apartments total, I counted—and got nowhere. Most didn't answer. A few told us they were busy. One man laughed and said, "Still trying to save souls, boys? Good luck."

By four-thirty, we'd retreated to Parc de la Ciutadella.

"We'll spend an hour here doing street contacting," Elder Price announced, surveying the park like a general surveying a battlefield. "You take the northeast quadrant near the fountain. I'll cover the paths near the lake."

"We're companions. We're supposed to stay together."

"We can maintain visual contact. It's more efficient this way."

What he meant was:I can't stand being near you right now.

"Fine."

I watched him stride toward the lake, his white shirtbrilliant against the green. A few university students sprawled on the grass, reading or talking. A family fed ducks at the water's edge. No one looked remotely interested in two American missionaries.

I found a bench near the Cascada fountain and sat down. The late afternoon light slanted through the palm trees, turning everything golden. Across the park, Elder Price approached a jogger who waved him off without breaking stride.

I pulled out my sketchbook.

I'd promised myself I wouldn't. That I'd at least try to do the missionary thing, stand up, smile at strangers, offer a Book of Mormon. But my hand was already moving, pencil scratching across paper. The fountain first—the baroque excess of it, all those carved figures and cascading water. Then the trees. Then a woman sitting cross-legged on the grass with a book.

My shoulders unknotted. My breathing slowed.

This was the only thing that made sense anymore. The only thing that felt true.

I glanced up to check on my jailer. Across the park, Price had stopped harassing a jogger. He was standing on the path, perfectly still, staring right at me.

I expected the usual judgment—the narrowed eyes, the aggressive check-the-watch gesture. But he wasn't checking his watch. He was just... watching. His gaze felt heavy, almost physical, tracing the line of my posture on the bench. He looked stuck, like he wanted to look away but couldn't.

When I raised an eyebrow, he flinched like he’d been burned and spun around to march toward a group of teenagers playing football.