“What for, Cynthia?”“Just a visit.”“They’re hearing confessions this afternoon,” she said. “You might want to take the sacrament.”�...OK.”Good. It’s her idea.“Is there something on your conscience?”“No. I’m just feeling devout.”“Feeling devout, huh?”So I would have to confess lying to my mom, too.Our church was built the year I was born. It’s supposed to feel like a Gothic cathedral, except without the buttresses. It’s shaped like a cross, with a high vault in the middle and stained-glass windows. My modified tongue acted as a sponge, and very soonthe trough was empty, and I sat back in hungry expectation. The soft scrapeof a shovel through some loose substance, the noise of its load slitheringinto the trough, announced to me that I was being fed. Eagerly I bent my headover the trough; in spite of the sour reek of the soft, crumbly stuff theyfed me on it tasted of nothing at all, unless it might be damp cardboard. Butit had nourished me for many months and it filled my belly; and it was. More

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