I was sitting on my sofa, Tatina kneeling at my side, gently icing my bruised and swollen knuckles. She said nothing. I joined her in her silence. After a time, she stood and walked to the kitchen, where she gave a fresh bottle of Iron Fish Maple Bourbon a healthy pour into a tumbler and brought it to me.

“When did you get this?” I said, taking the glass from her.

“Elena and I went shopping today,” she said. “She wanted to get Tomás some new clothes since he lost weight in the hospital.”

“You get anything?”

“The whiskey,” she said. “For you.”

“I thought you were cutting me back on the booze.”

“I brought you a glass,” she said, “not the bottle. Appreciate the glass.”

Then I felt it. A teardrop on my hand. I went to wipe away her tears. She brushed my hand away.

“No,” she said, abruptly turning and walking to the kitchen.

I followed.

Without looking at me, she said, “I hate crying. It’s a waste of time and effort and it’s selfish.” She sucked in a ragged breath of air. “That’s what my mother said to me once. I was nine. A couple of teenaged boys tried to catch me—rape me—by the docks in Mogadishu. I outran them. I knew places to hide no one else knew. When I got home, I told my mother. I was crying when I told her. She let me cry for a little, then she said, ‘Stop,’ and I did. ‘Crying is good for the soul when you have the time and luxury,’ she said. ‘Here, in this place, there is neither the time nor the luxury. In this place, tears are a waste of water and salt. It is your mind, skills and Allah that kept you safe and brought you home to me. Focus on and be grateful for these things.’” After a breath, she brought her wet eyes to mine and said, “You make me cry, August. Your chosen distances. Your hard silences. Choosing to be alone with your burdens. You make me cry for these things—and I don’t know if it’s a waste of water and salt. If it is, I’ll go home and remember you always.”

Two hours later we were standing at the main altar of St. Al’s on Washington Boulevard facing Father Grabowski.

“Let me see if I’m hearing you on this,” Grabowski said. “You’re not engaged. And you’re not asking me to marry you. But you want your commitment to each other consecrated before each other and God?”

“Yep,” I said. “That’s about right.”

“About right ain’t good enough, son,” he said sternly. “It either is or it ain’t. God don’t do just ‘about right.’”

“Yes,” I said. “We want to do this.”

“Tatina?” Father Grabowski said. “Are you a Catholic?”