Margaret's Ark

to fall down. He was going to stay focused until the end. Five days, God, that's all I ask. Five lousy days.

The exhaustion faded. He continued towards the station with only a minor wobble in his stride. Maybe he'd lie down when he got inside, see if a few minutes’ sleep might present itself.

4

“Receive the body of Christ.”

Nick worked around one of the beams, brushing against a harness as he moved to the next person; hands were raised before them as they awaited the Host.

“The body of Christ.”

“Amen.” Jennifer took the communion wafer with her right hand and put it into her mouth. Like everyone attending Mass inside the ship, she was kneeling. Those not receiving had moved towards the back, though continued to kneel like the others. Nick stepped aside and gave communion to Margaret's daughter Katie, who had completed her First Communion class just prior to the start of this nightmare. Beside her was Robin, only four years old. Nick had the urge to offer her the Host anyway, but it was a fleeting whim. He put his hand on her head and said, “May God bless you and keep you all the days of your life.”

She smiled gleefully at this, like most younger children did when they came with their parents for the Sacrament.

“The body of Christ.”

Margaret said, “Amen,” and took the host.

Thank you, Lord, for allowing me this day , Nick thought. He continued moving among the tiny congregation.

3

“Attention, please. It seems we're slightly overbooked this afternoon. If anyone would like to give up their seat, we'd be more than happy to give you passage on the next available flight to your destination plus vouchers for free air travel to any destination in the continental United States.” The flight attendant looked nervous behind her smile.

“Damn greedy airlines,” Neha muttered. “Always asking favors from passengers but never supplying product.” Suresh nodded but said nothing. He had not been very talkative these past few days. Neha watched a family of four work their way excitedly up the aisle, dreams of a second vacation to the Grand Canyon or other such tourist trap dancing in their heads. Neha's own seat offered a sense of security she found discomforting. She didn't like her situation feeling so tenuous. It wasn't as if anyone had the power to force them off the plane, not now. When she and Suresh had waited in the hard plastic chairs in the terminal, they watched a line of people argue for seats. “You sold us the tickets!” they shouted, or “I have my online confirmation right here” waving a sheet of paper in the clerk's face.

So many people, arguments at booking counters, flights sold out. Looks of desperation on everyone’s face, even those who’d already checked in and held their boarding pass in trembling hands. One red-faced man had scanned the seated crowd. From what Neha had heard of his argument, he'd been screwed over and was plainly thinking of how to screw someone else in return. When his sweaty gaze met hers, she returned the look and thought, Mess with me and I'll cut out your heart. She continued with the telepathic barrage until he looked elsewhere.

Meanwhile Suresh took it all in from his seat beside her with a calmness that infuriated her. Now, thank God, they were sitting in the plane, watching the desperate flight attendant move back towards the microphone. Again, she asked if anyone else would like to take the airline up on its generous offer. No one did.

Neha  wasn't surprised. The flight was non-stop to Denver. Mountain country. High above the fray. Safe haven.

Morons .

Eventually, all trays were raised into their upright and locked positions. The attendants did their how-to- breathe-if-the-plane-smashes-into-a-mountain dance and the airplane mercifully backed away from the terminal.

Neha wondered what she'd expected to happen. Perhaps the red-faced guy would storm inside, gun in hand. People were hurting each other a lot lately. As the plane accelerated along the runway, she felt her fear fall away. The plane rose, banked slightly to the right, and sailed away from Logan airport, away from Boston and the East Coast. Leaving it all far, far behind.

She’d been staring through the small window since they took off. Now she looked at her husband. Suresh was holding her hand. When her eyes had adjusted to the interior light, she saw he was crying.

“What's wrong with you?”

She tried to sound comforting. Just a few days more, she reminded herself. Just a few more days.

Suresh smiled, a single tear finding its way down his dark face. “Nothing,” he said. “Everything is perfect.” He squeezed her hand. Neha couldn't stand it any longer. She pulled her hand away and reached under the seat for her bag. She'd picked up a random book at the gift shop. If Suresh was going to be weeping for the next five hours, at least she could mentally escape to a world other than the one containing her husband's sad, lonely face.

2

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been ten years since my last confession.”

Father Doiron listened to the woman on the other side of the confessional screen. She offloaded her sins of gluttony, the incident three years ago when she struck her son, the illicit thoughts for a man at work, which had not been acted upon. Doiron forced himself to sit straight in his chair, grateful that his parish at Holy Trinity still had the old phone-booth styled confessionals. These days, some merely used two chairs with only a thin screen between, if that. Normally, he thought of this modern method for the Sacrament of Reconciliation as noble. Not now. Not when there were so many people coming to unload their sins. He felt shame for wanting to keep this solid barrier between him and his flock.

So many of them.

“Father?”

Doiron spoke at once. “Is there not something you are holding back? A confession before God should be complete.”

The woman was silent for a moment, then, “No, Father. I don't know. Not that I can recall.”

“Very well. Are you sorry for these things, truly repentant in your wish for God's forgiveness?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Then it is given.” He uttered the rite of Penance. The words, though sacred in his heart, came as automatic as breath from so much repetition. He then instructed her to pray three Acts of Contrition, a decade of Hail Mary's, explained to her what a “decade” was, and offered a final blessing.

Shuffling sounds as she rose and left. Someone immediately took her place. The priest leaned forward a moment and looked through the slats of his confessional door and into the rest of the church. Too many people to count, lined up along the sides of the pews all the way into the back.

So many of them . As he had been doing every day since the shooting, he prayed that Father McMillan would return. Even for a little while. There were so many people, so many in the parish needing him. Doiron felt as if there was nothing left of him to offer these people. Still, they kept coming.

He was so tired.

Someone on the other side of the screen whispered, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

1

 Father Tim McMillan walked along the streets of Arlington, Massachusetts. He knew these neighborhoods not only from his own memories, but from the intimate pictures - some happy and some dark - drawn for him over the years by the people of his parish. The houses and streets always offered something new each time he walked by them, especially at night. The world of day bred familiarity, but in the dark the world changed, cooled, washed