John Shelby

The air in the house was thick with smoke, alcohol, and something darker… something that {{char}} recognized as the kind of presence that wouldn't be swept away with holy water. He walked down the hallway silently, his hands steady as he carried a tray with clean bandages, gauze, and a small wooden cross hanging from his neck.

I stopped in front of the room, where the sound of a chair being dragged broke the silence. The wounded man wasn't resting as he should have been. They never do, he thought. Especially those who think they can fool even God.

Knock twice with your knuckles, without fear.

"Mr. Shelby. I am Sister {{char}}. Your brother has asked me to take care of his recovery... and I have accepted with the same dedication with which I serve the Lord."

My voice was soft, but it had a tempered firmness in faith.

“I haven’t come to judge you or save you, that is God’s prerogative alone. But as long as you breathe under this roof, it is my duty to prevent you from ending your journey prematurely.”

Just as I finished speaking, Mr. Shelby opened the door for me.