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Mairin knew she’d get no gratitude for claiming responsibility for the shearing. That was how the act of rebellion came to

be known—The Shearing. Like it was the title of some kind of horror movie. The news of the rebellion had rocketed through

the halls and dormitories of the Good Shepherd, creating more scandal and outrage than any of the supposed infractions the

girls had committed to get them sent here in the first place.

Mairin’s entire dorm unit lost one of the few privileges the girls had—their monthly outing to high mass at St. Joe’s, over

on Franklin Street. Not that the field trip was anything special, but the outing gave the girls a break in routine. The huge

sanctuary was dank and cavernous and not terribly interesting except for the sonic boom of its giant organ belting out the

“Panis Angelicus,” the offertory hymns, and the recessional. The nuns liked to parade the students of the Good Shepherd in

front of important parishioners and diocese bigwigs at the cathedral to show the world the good they were doing for the wayward

girls of Buffalo. Mairin thought it was totally humiliating, having to appear in public wearing their plain laundry smocks

and cheap shoes, but at least there was cider and donuts afterward.

One time, she saw Kevin Doyle by the door to the sacristy, standing tall and solemn in his raiment.

Not so long ago he was all she dreamed of.

Going to the movies, holding hands while they skated in Delaware Park.

Those days seemed like a distant fantasy now, like something that had happened to someone else.

When their gazes caught, she narrowed her eyes.

Kevin turned beet red and his gaze darted away.

He probably realized his mother and Mairin’s mother had discovered that Mairin and Kevin had sneaked off to the movies together.

Now Mairin was in jail while Kevin was free.

No consequences for him. If he ever caught on fire again, she’d probably let him burn.

This month, however, there was no chance of running into Kevin. The shorn girls would miss out on St. Joe’s, thanks to Mairin’s

rebellious act.

As for Mairin, she endured a harsher fate. She was marched directly to the confessional to give up her sins to the priest,

and then pray the act of contrition in a voice that shook with false remorse.

The chapel at the Good Shepherd contained a set of old-fashioned confessional booths, the kind with the priest hiding in the

middle and the sinners in separate chambers on either side. The ornate door handles lined up in a row. In catechism class,

kids called it a sinner sandwich.

The anonymous priest behind the screen listened in silence as Mairin owned up to what she had done. When she finished her

confession, he gave her a perfunctory penance that consisted of some ridiculous number of Hail Marys, and dismissed her with

a terse Go and sin no more. Then he shut the privacy screen in haste, as if bored by his duties.

Mairin took her time emerging from the confessional, because she knew what was coming next. She stood and rubbed her sore

knees, then pushed against the door of the booth. The handle was stuck, and she realized she was trapped in the tiny cubicle.

Panic flared in her chest, and she nearly called out for help. Then, remembering where she was, she rallied and took a deep

breath, nudging the sticky handle until the latch finally clicked and the door opened.

Under the fiery glare of Sister Rotrude, Mairin shuffled over to the hard wooden kneeler below the altar.

She didn’t bother to count her prayers. Instead, she pretended to bow her head in sorrow while letting her mind wander. She

and Fiona used to go to confession together each Saturday in preparation for receiving Eucharist on Sunday. “You have to do

it on Saturday,” Mam would say, “so there’s no spare time to sin before receiving communion on Sunday.”

The girls would walk slowly to church as they planned out the transgressions they were willing to own up to—telling a fib, playing a prank, disobeying one of the nuns at school.

During penance, they would make a game with their rosary beads, racing through the prayers to see who could finish first, both girls cheating with a hail Mary hail Mary hail Mary and leaving out the rest of the prayer.

Sometimes they would hum “Midnight Confessions” by the Grass Roots under their breath

until one of them burst into giggles.

Now Mairin wondered what had become of her friend. It was still impossible to imagine Fiona, her lifelong friend, having a

baby .

When she stood and turned to exit the chapel, Mairin noticed the nuns waiting to make their own confessions, which they did

every week without fail. All in a line in the front row of pews, they knelt in prayer, their faces illuminated by flickering

candlelight. Shadows danced on the colored panes of the barred windows. The carved bas-relief scenes depicting the stations

of the cross had just been given a polish by the senior girls, and the scent of lemon oil mingled with frankincense and dank

stone.

Mairin wondered what sort of sins these veiled women copped to, week in and week out. Did they seek penance for the lies they

told themselves—that they were helping the girls in their charge? Did they seek absolution for hurting people in the name

of the Lord? Or did they harbor secrets like anyone else—impure thoughts? Self-aggrandizement? Evil intent? Their own shortcomings?

She tried to picture Sister Agatha sneaking sips of sacrament wine when no one was looking. Maybe Sister John whispered rude

thoughts about her fellow nuns behind their backs.

As she walked past the nuns, Mairin could read nothing but chilly disdain in their glances. Only Rotrude and Bernadette were

absent. They made their confessions at a different time, because they had to serve in the front office when the prioress went

to her weekly diocese meeting every Thursday afternoon.

Now Sister Theresa gripped Mairin’s arm, her fingers digging in painfully as she delivered her once again to the closet.

Mairin said nothing to object, because by now, she knew exactly how the nun would react—by doubling down on the punishment.

Mairin struggled to keep her expres sion neutral as the stone-faced woman held the door open and gestured into the dark room.

“Inside with you, then. You’d do well to spend the time here thinking about what you’ve done, missy.”

Mairin kept her eyes cast down and stepped inside the space. She loathed and feared the dark isolation of the closet, but

she had learned to keep her emotions tightly locked away. The door shut and the latch fastened with a decisive click , and darkness swallowed Mairin.

Alone and surrounded by blackness, she groped for the door and jimmied it, but it was latched from the outside. She ran her

fingers around every corner and crevice. Overhead, she found a grill or vent with a small lever that opened and closed. It

didn’t let any light into the space, but she felt a rush of fresh air, and she could hear sounds from the hallway outside.

That was something, at least.

Her spirit flickered like dim embers struggling to survive, and she lost track of time. To keep herself from going mad, she

filled her mind with dreams of home. Not the home dominated by Colm and his dirty looks, but the place where she’d felt safe

with her dad before the accident at the Falls. The nuns might control every aspect of her life, but not her thoughts. Not

her imagination. Not her fondest memories.

Mairin found solace by retreating to a time when her world was filled with love and warmth. Back then, life revolved around

her father, who shone like the sun.

Patrick O’Hara was a tall, gentle man with twinkling blue-green eyes and a booming voice that could effortlessly turn gentle

enough to soothe even the deepest wounds of her young heart. She and Liam and their dad used to spend countless hours together.

Even now, years later, Mairin could still smell the faint scent of her father’s shaving soap and feel the rough texture of

his calloused hands. He was her hero, her source of comfort and protection.

Strolling hand in hand as if they were the only two souls in the city, they would meander along the waterfront, taking in the sound of gulls echoing in the distance, their laughter mingling with the lapping of the waves against the shore.

He taught her to see the beauty in the simplest things—the flash of sunlight dancing on the water, the twinkle of a single snowflake on the back of her mitten, or the way a smile from a stranger could brighten even the gloomiest of days.

Dad encouraged Mairin’s love for growing things in the garden. He believed that the garden was a great teacher. One story

he loved to tell was about artichokes and dandelions. He said if you’re born a dandelion, you are naturally robust, able to

tolerate any kind of growing conditions. But if you’re an artichoke, you’re highly sensitive to cold temperatures and pests

and bad soil. You need more sunlight and water in order to thrive. “It’s just the way you came to this earth,” Dad used to

say. “One’s no better than the other, but it’s a lot easier to be a dandelion. The artichoke has a harder path.”

When she closed her eyes, Mairin could almost hear his voice again, filled with pride and tenderness. She held on to his words

like some girls held on to a locket, securely closed around the memories.

He worked long hours for the power plant, but whenever he had time off, he would spend it with her and Liam, teaching them

how to ride a bike, fixing their broken toys, and telling them stories. His laughter was infectious, and his love for her

and Liam and Mam felt like the safest place on earth.

On hot summer afternoons, the whole family would escape to the lush countryside, heading up toward Niagara Falls to cool off