text: The stage lights illuminated the empty pulpit in the chancel of Hartstown First Methodist. The chapel was small, cramped even when only seating about 60 people on a given Sunday, though Matthew Semple might have killed for a house that full. He had been the resident priest for the last five years, but tonight he sat as the lone parishioner of the church, his knees crammed against the backing of the first row of pews. He imagined the service as it would play out on Sunday. The hymns, the sermon, the announcements about who’s grandson had made the varsity football team and when the quilting club would be meeting the following Thursday. Just the thought of it made him feel drowsy. As he stood from the pew, Matthew’s eye was drawn to the stained-glass mural, faded by a thin layer of dust and the dark night outside. Rain on the window pooled around the ridged edges of christ’s eyes and a flash of lightning revealed a spider who had made its home in the high corner of the window just above Christ’s corona. He probably should have gone downstairs to the supply closet to grab the duster, but he waved it off, feeling too tired to do much of anything. Matthew side stepped from between the pews, the roaring sound of the storm swelled and the door to the foyer groaned open. Squeaky flat-footed steps crossed the tiles towards the doors to the chapel and the door swung open. A man stood in the darkness at the back of the chapel like a shadow within a shadow. He wore black from head to toe, the hood of his sweater hung over his face and rainwater formed pools on the carpet surrounding his black engineer’s boots. A gym bag slung across the man’s chest. In Matthew’s mind, impending violence played on a loop, a gun, a knife maybe, pulled from the gym bag, the squelch of wet footsteps across carpet, then blood and darkness, and then nothing at all. Matthew’s voice clung to the back of his throat *caught in a spider’s web*, he thought to himself. “Ca-can I help you?” They almost weren’t even words but stuttering little breaths. The figure flung back his hood and the atmosphere of the room dipped back to sustainable levels. A small grin broke across Matthew’s face. “Alex? Alex Lawson?” “Hello, Mr.Semple.” Alex spoke in a deep soft monotone that buzzed throughout the chapel. “I need to speak with you.” Four years ago, just as Matthew had become accustomed to the flock which he led, the Lawsons had arrived. There was Dean, Alex’s father, a blue-collar man who Matthew had found to be mostly inconvenienced to be brought to church. Sarah was a staple in the community, and it had been a tragic blow to the congregation when she’d left town only two years after she’d first arrived. Then, there was Alex, a slender, brunette child, maybe a little hyperactive and spoiled but no more so than any other child in the congregation. Hartstown, being the small place that it is, made an event of every newcomer, and on the first day that the family had come to Matthew’s church it had been all that anyone in the congregation could talk about. The talking only got worse when Mr. Lawson made fewer appearances at the Sunday service and more appearances at the town’s other rumor mill, The Fifth Circle Lounge. After Sarah left, Alex stopped coming to church too and the town moved on to the next hot topic of the month. Whenever a story came up now that involved something that Sarah had pioneered, like the quilting club, the occasional “that poor woman” or “I just can’t understand how she could leave that boy with him” would be spoken and promptly glossed over. The Alex that stood before him now was an entirely different creature, teetering on the edge of adulthood, his shoulders were wide and tapered fashionably into his slender but muscular form. Perhaps it was just the clothing or the situation, but Alex had a dark disposition that Matthew thought probably did well with the ladies. His hair was cropped short on the sides and the rain slicked his bang into a curl that wrapped around his eye like a scar. His face was boyish and seemed unfitting to the rest of his body. “Of course.” Matthew said, his grin growing wider. “Would you like some tea?” The tea kettle whistled in the kitchenette of the rec room, just as Alex was stepping out of the bathroom, donning clothes from the charity pile. Matthew made a note that they would need to be washed one last time before he drove the donations to the goodwill on Thursday. Matthew passed Alex a mug and they raised in a wordless toast before drinking. “Thanks,” Alex said, setting down the ceramic mug and locking his eyes on the vinyl of the kitchenette’s countertop. “My mother always said that you were very kind to her.” Matthew and Alex sat in silence for a few minutes, outside the rain fell with no signs of letting up. Alex nursed little sips of the tea and fumbled with an extra sugar in the raw packet in his hand. Matthew leaned back in his chair, the plastic backing tightened and made a little squeak against his heft. “Is that so?” “Yes,” Alex said. “It seemed like you too got to know each other pretty well when...” The words fell off the face of the earth, Alex pinched the sugar into one end of the packet and twisted the empty side into a spiral shape until it seemed like the packet might burst. “I’ve always made it a point to speak with each member of my congregation.” “Did she tell you about my dad?” Alex asked, he stole a glance at Matthew’s face as he spoke. “No, but I knew. I just wish that I could have helped her more.” Matthew took a sip from his coffee. Alex sat up straight, unfurling the sugar packet and setting it on the table. “Do you know where she is?” Matthew leaned forward exhaling deeply, He leaned in close and looked deep into Alex until Alex met his gaze. Alex’s eyes widened, he looked down at the floor and pulled the gym bag on to the table. He opened one of the side pockets and removed several slips of paper. “I started getting these letters a few weeks ago. She wants me to live with her, she told me to talk to you.” Alex passed over the letters to Matthew, who flipped through them each, not reading each line carefully, but rather absorbing the messages the way one does when they first see a striking painting. Matthew set the pages down, exhaling as if he were returning to his body after some deep meditation. Alex’s eyes burned like swords of fire. Matthew could feel his intensity even though he’d yet to look back. “I can take you to her.” Matthew said. “But you may not like what you see.” ... Alex had fallen asleep as they drove down the 11. It was dark, tall oaks whirred past them only as shadowy figures their tips illuminated by the moon. On the radio Linda Ronstadt sang softly about the Blue Bayou. *It could have gone worse.* Matthew thought to himself, sneaking looks at Alex’s sleeping form in between watching the road. The way it had been with Sarah, Alex’s mother, that was worse. The blood, oh god! Matthew thought that it would be like cleaning a cup of spilled milk, nothing to cry over, but the task had been so much more than that. Then there were the letters, it had been so hard for her to write them knowing what Matthew would do to her and to Alex. Matthew had been worried when the boy first showed up, it was a risk after all, having him come to the church, but everything seemed to have worked perfectly. The letters were all accounted for, he could torch them in the cabin’s fireplace when they arrived. The cover of night had helped immensely as well as the sprinkle of Benadryl in the tea. Yes, it was much better than how things had gone with Sarah, Alex’s mother. Matthew had almost felt bad enough to let her go by the end of it, almost. He didn’t even want her. That was the thing he realized in the aftermath of the event. She’d just been too eager to please, too eager to get away from that drunken idiot she called a husband, when Matthew had seen the bruised skin under her blouse, he knew he’d done the right thing. He’d saved her, and then he realized that Alex needed saving too. Matthew’s eyes felt heavy, but he was too excited to sleep. He looked over at Alex, his face was lit by the blue lights of the truck’s radio. He looked, Matthew thought, like a cadaver or maybe a ghost. Matthew pulled one hand off the steering wheel and reached for Alex’s face. He was close, so close he could feel the heat of Alex’s breath as it rushed out of his nose. Matthew put his hand back on the steering wheel and drove on.