Fitz just stared, frowning. “Uh. Okay.”

“Get cleaned up,” Forthill replied, his tone firm. “I’ll go round up something to eat while you do. Do you prefer tea or cocoa?”

“Um,” Fitz said. “I guess cocoa.”

“Excellent taste,” Forthill said. “If you will excuse me.” He left the room quietly.

Fitz started looking around the room immediately.

“I doubt there’s much to steal,” I said. “Forthill isn’t really into material things.”

“You kidding? Look at this place. Pillows, blankets.” He looked under the bed. “Three pairs of shoes. It’s a hell of a lot more than my crew has. Zero rolls in four pairs of socks and some old moccasin house slippers.”

“Guy’s offering you clothes and food,” I said. “You’re not seriously going to steal his stuff, are you?”

Fitz shrugged. “You do what you have to do to live, man. I do. Everyone does. Nothing personal.” He looked in Forthill’s closet, at maybe half a dozen outfits’ worth of clothing, and shook his head. “Ah. He’ll notice if I try to take any of this stuff.” He looked toward the bathroom.

“Go ahead,” I said. “You can lock the door behind you. I’m telling you, kid, Forthill is one of the good guys.”

“That’s make-believe. There ain’t no good guys,” Fitz said. “Or bad guys. There’s just guys.”

“You’re wrong about that,” I said.

“Heard that one before. People who want to use you always say they’re the good guys,” Fitz said. “You’re one of them, right?”

“Heh,” I said. “No. I’m an arrogant ass. But I know what a good guy looks like, and Forthill is one of them.”

“Whatever, man,” Fitz said. “I haven’t had a shower in two weeks. If I tell you to buzz off, will you do it? Or do I have to keep hearing you yammer?”

“Sorry, Fitz. You aren’t my type.”

He snorted, went into the bathroom, and locked the door behind him. I heard the water start up a moment later.

I stood in the priest’s empty chamber for a moment, looking around it. Everything there was plain, modest, functional, and cheap. The quilt covering the bed looked like it might have been made for Forthill by his mother when he went to seminary. There was a King James Bible next to the bed. It, too, looked worn and old.

I shook my head. Granted, my life hadn’t exactly been featured on an MTV series covering the excesses of the rich and famous, but even I’d had more than Forthill did. How could a man go through life with so little? Nothing of permanence, nothing built up to leave behind him. Nothing to testify to his existence at all.

The kind of man who isn’t focused on his own existence, I guess. The kind of man who cares more about others than he does himself—to the point of spending the whole of his life, a life as fleeting and precious as anyone else’s, in service to his faith and to humanity. There was no glamour in it, no fame.