Light in thick ropes running between the trees, turning the dust in the air to gold. He watches her face as they approach the church, the abrupt limit of the woods giving way to grass. The strange sudden beauty of it in all that green. She stops, lips parted. Gazing at it. Weeds long against its sides. Bronze bell motionless in its little tower. You want to go in? he asks. She blinks. Deep breath. I guess, yeah. Gesturing for him to lead the way through the grass to the steps. Inside it is cool, damp, slight smell of mold. She looks around. The doors have been removed from P.’s case, glass restored, only the sword remaining inside. So this is where he was, she says, stroking the gold hinge. Reading the prayer on the paper tacked to the glass. I believe, Heavenly Father, all that Faith teaches, and in that faith I wish to live and die; O glorious St. Pancratius, I beg you, with all the affection of my heart, to teach us, especially the youth, with what courage we should flee from sin, so that, undefiled, I may live a holy life on earth and win eternal glory in Heaven, Amen. And below it, handwritten: Please pray for the return of our Saint. Karen looks over her shoulder; Xie follows her gaze. P. at the door. What? Nothing, she says. Just feel like we’re going to get in trouble or something. Scolded by a nun. Do you want to light a candle? he asks. She rubs her hands together, brisk. Yeah, let’s do the candles. She digs in her coat pocket, puts a quarter in the donation box beneath the altar. Taking a candle from his hand, screwing the taper into the iron holder. Strike the long match. Now what. I don’t know, he says. You don’t have to do anything. He stares at the flame. Remembers how there was always a candle here, lit, when he came. Karen elbows him. Are you praying? He smiles. No. No? I’m just thinking. About what? He shrugs. They look at their flames. If only he could say, There is this person I love. And he’s not even a person. After a moment Karen’s quick breath. Do we blow them out or. No, I think you just let them burn. She gathers her hair, twists it, lets it go. He sniffs, breaking off a little arm of wax from the altar. Do you think you’d want to come sometime. With me and FKK. To, um. A protest. Her eyebrows high. Me? He nods. Yeah, she says, immediate. I would. I will. Without thinking he takes her hand, pulls it. To his mouth. Quick kiss on the knuckle. She laughs, squeezing his fingers. They take one last look at the church, straight up at the ceiling, its prim painted arches. Beautiful, she says. They walk back through the yellow grass together, P. leading the way back to the road, his sword dragging behind him, drawing a line in the dirt.