The priest was standing in the doorway, watching as the first car pulled in. He shank further into the warm oak wood that lined the doorway. The priest's flesh-warmed clothes reached through him and he basked in the forbidden warmth. Before he could stretch fully into the priest's breath, the priest had hurried on through him.

He had stood like that in someone else. It had been a we. A forbidden, unholy we. A we are running, falling, dying. A we have to find a way out. He. And someone.

Now he was alone. He knew only this.