Page 15 of Body and Soul

As I stepped out onto the porch, I noticed a neon orange piece of paper hanging from the doorknob. Great, what now? I snatched it off and scanned the bold text.

NOTICE OF WATER SHUTOFF

Service will be discontinued in 3 days due to non-payment.

A $75 reconnection fee will be charged to restore service.

Fuck. I crumpled the notice into a tight ball and stuffed it into my pocket. I'd have to tell Hal and figure out how we were going to scrounge up the cash, since it was our turn this month to cover the water. Maybe hit up Greasy Pete and see if he had any odd jobs that paid under the table.

Outside, the air was thick and muggy, the asphalt already shimmering with heat even though it was barely past dawn. I started walking, my sneakers scuffing against the cracked sidewalk. The route to McHappy's took me past boarded-up storefronts and weed-choked vacant lots, the only signs of life a few mangy dogs picking through the overflowing dumpsters.

As I walked, my thoughts drifted back to Shepherd's offer. I tried to push Shepherd's words out of my mind, but they kept circling back like vultures drawn to carrion.

A part of me recoiled at the thought of being controlled, of giving up my autonomy to some rich, dominant asshole in a suit, especially after all those years in the cult. But another part, a part I tried hard to ignore, was thrilled at the idea. Deep down, I’d always craved rigid structure and strong guidance, a yearning I couldn't shake even after leaving the cult. So much of the time I felt lost, adrift, without any lifelines. What would it be like to surrender, to let go of the constant struggle and obey? To have someone else take charge, take care of me in ways I couldn't seem to manage on my own?

I imagined kneeling at Shepherd's feet, his strong hand fisted in my hair, holding me in place. My breath quickened, and my cock started to harden. Fuck. I couldn't be getting turned on by this shit. Not now, when I could barely keep the lights on and the water running.

But even as I tried to redirect my thoughts to overdue utility bills and empty cupboards, Shepherd's dark eyes haunted me,promising things I didn't dare put a name to. Things I knew I couldn't have, and didn’t deserve.

I was so lost in my own head, I didn't notice the tent set up on the corner until I nearly stumbled over one of the ropes anchoring it to the sidewalk.

I jerked back, my heart leaping into my throat as I took in the white canvas tent emblazoned with the all too familiar logo—a shepherd's staff crossed with a sword.

The Children of the Light. Fuck, what were they doing here, in my neighborhood?

A folding table was set up in front, stacked with paper plates of sandwiches and a large cooler, no doubt filled with bottled water and juice boxes. A chalkboard sign propped next to it read “Food and comfort for lost souls. All welcome in the Light.”

A shudder ran through me, bile creeping up my throat as buried memories clawed their way back to the surface. Endless hours of prayer, the scent of decay, the isolation. And worst of all, the revival nights where I was ordered to...

“Elias? Is that you?”

A middle-aged woman with graying hair emerged from the tent, her face lighting up in recognition. Sister Mary Catherine. The one who'd pinned my wrists to the mattress during my first revival, shushing me gently even as I begged her to stop.

I spun on my heel, ready to bolt, but found my path blocked by a teenage boy in a white button-down. His eyes widened as he took me in. “Elias? Wow, you look... different.” His gaze flicked to my tattoos and up to my white hair.

I fought down the rising panic, forcing myself to meet the boy's curious stare. It was little Jeremiah, except he wasn't so little anymore. He'd grown at least a foot since I'd last seen him, his face losing the roundness of childhood.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, my voice strained. I glanced around, half expecting to see Father Ezekiel emerge from the shadows.

“We're doing the Lord's work, bringing His light to those struggling in darkness,” Sister Mary Catherine said, coming to stand beside Jeremiah. Her eyes raked over me, taking in my rumpled uniform and ink-stained fingers. “It looks like you could use some of that light yourself, Elias. We've missed you in the caravan.”

I swallowed hard, tasting bile. “I'm not going back. Ever.”

“Oh sweetie,” she said gently, but there was steel beneath the sweetness. “Father Ezekiel still cares for you deeply, Elias. We all do. The Children are your family. We'll always be here for you when you're ready to come home.”

Home. I almost laughed. That place had been a prison, a nightmare I'd barely escaped. But I bit my tongue, knowing it was useless to argue with true believers.

“I have to get to work,” I muttered, trying to step around them.

Jeremiah moved to block me. “Wait,” Jeremiah said, his voice cracking slightly. “Elias, please. Talk to us for a minute.” His eyes were wide and pleading, reminding me painfully of the scrawny kid who used to follow me around the campgrounds like a lost puppy.

I hesitated, my hands clenching into fists at my sides. I didn't want to have anything to do with the Children of the Light ever again. But Jeremiah had been the closest thing I'd had to a little brother back in those days.

Sister Mary Catherine seized on my moment of indecision, her voice dripping with concern. “We're worried about you, Elias. Living out here on your own, in sin, struggling to make ends meet. This isn't the life God wants for you.”

“What God wants doesn't matter to me anymore,” I snapped. “And neither does what Father Ezekiel wants.”

Hurt flashed across Jeremiah's face, and I felt a pang of guilt. But I couldn't let myself get sucked back in, not even by the memories of the scared, lonely kid I'd once been.

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