His mother was already spewing smoke.

Max fidgeted in the scratched leather chair, bouncing his knee and rocking the rickety coffee table full of brochures ranging from “Learning the Bible” to “The Gay and Lesbian Catholic Group.” Vera said they were in the lounge of the rectory, which meant it was where Father Chuck lived. Max couldn’t get used to calling him that. Shouldn’t it be Father Whatever His Last Name Is? Though he didn’t really have much experience with Catholic priests—or rabbis, or ministers, or monks. Religion was something that fueled other people—the reason wars were fought, genocides were waged, and people were treated as “other.”

Even after the explosion, when Max was fed clichés about his dad being “in a better place” or “with the angels,” he pretended to believe and smiled politely. Because where else was he supposed to picture his father? Of course the man was in Heaven, some ubiquitous utopia with white puffy clouds and magical harps. He never considered the opposite. Hell didn’t cross his mind.

Now it did.

“I have soda, orange juice, water, or coffee,” the priest offered as he dug through a humming beige refrigerator.

“I’m okay.” Max’s knee bopped harder.

“I’ll have a water.” Vera sat on a matching leather chair, not meeting Max’s eyes.

She’d driven straight from the hospital to pick him up, and they hardly spoke the entire ride here. He didn’t know if it was because things didn’t go well with her friend, because she was sleepwalking last night, or because she spent the night wrapped around him on the couch. He really hoped it wasn’t the latter, because honestly, holding her was the only good moment he’d had in a very long time. He needed that memory.

“Well, I need some caffeine.” The priest cracked open a can of Coke as he strutted back in his cowboy boots.

He cleared a pile of newspapers and bulletins from the leather sofa, which was tufted with fat upholstered buttons, and sat down. His faded navy polo was untucked, and there was a stain that looked like coffee below his collar.

“You’re eyeing me funny.” The priest peered at Max.

Max shook his head, neck hot. “Sorry. I just, I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a priest out of uniform before.”

“Oh.” Father Chuck took a swig. “I used to wear the collar, but I find it turns people off.” His graying mustache twitched. “Only bums approach me when I wear the collar. And I’m a real person—I ride the bus. I don’t need that shit.”

Max’s eyes bugged, and he looked at Vera, who was suppressing a grin. She wasn’t kidding when she texted the priest might be “just rogue enough” to help.

“Father Chuck is from Texas,” she explained. “He moved up here to serve on Connecticut University’s campus.”

The school was fifteen minutes from Roaring Creek, and half their graduating class attended. They called it thirteenth grade.

“I was living every little boy’s dream down there in Dallas. I was a cowboy on a ranch. Truth is, I wasn’t ready to leave. But I was convinced it would be good for the kids up here, and I ain’t sorry I did it. I met her folks.” He nodded at Vera. “They called this morning, right after you did. Filled me in.” His eyes flipped to Max. “Sorry about your mama.”