For the first time in a long time, my hand goes up to my neck, to reach for a necklace I no longer wear. A small, jeweled cross on a golden chain that my parents gave me after my confirmation. I broke it after that botched conversation with Father Michael, and I never picked it up again. I miss the feeling of the sharp edges underneath my fingers. “Are you religious?”

Grace considers it. “Some of my foster families were. I don’t know that I am. I never really thought about it.”

I huff out a laugh. “It’s always been such a big part of my life that I feel lost without it.” I realize that’s the truth the moment the words leave me. “It’s not just that I don’t belong here or that I miss my parents or my home, though those things are true. But I’ve lost all my certainties. I loved the feeling of being part of something greater.”

Even though our parish was small, the voices echoed through the church and lifted me up.

“That’s why it’s so hard for me to trust anyone,” I say. “You were right about that.”

She nods silently.

“It made me feel like the world had a purpose to it, and a kindness too. It made me feel like there was nothing I could do that wouldn’t be forgiven.” My voice is hoarse, but my hands are steady. “I lost that. I lost…knowing what the world looks like. I lost love and community, and I lost God.”

I gesture at the carefully tended graves. It’s too dark for either of us to see, but Josie took over my work with care and determination. She’s gathered rocks from all across the garden—and the other side of the fence too—and she’s been using them to cover the earth. She’s been trying to find ways to make markers. Gravestones. I hate to admit it, but she’s made this place better.

“This is the closest I’ve come to finding that purpose again. Bits and pieces of me.”

“Bits and pieces of God, too?” Grace asks. She clears her throat, and her eyes are suspiciously bright.

“I don’t know,” I answer truthfully.

She tilts her head a little to look at me. “Would you like to find God again?”

“Yes.” To be angry. To hurt. To be accepted. To come home. God, yes.

Grace takes my hand and holds it.

* * *

When I wake, my body aches like we stayed up all night, though Grace and I both went to our rooms in the early morning.

But I feel lighter, despite the achiness.

“You look horrible,” Josie says, when she sees me in the garden after breakfast. Her hair has grown past her ears, and she’s tied it back in a small ponytail. She hasn’t mellowed. She’s still all angles and anger. But she’s gentle with the garden and with the graves. We understand each other quite well these days.

“Still better than when you choked me.”