The air, weighted with three hundred years of desperate prayer, smells of old wood and the soot of scented candles. The heavily painted figure of the Messiah stands at the center of the church, silent and still, offering his open arms to the devout. The needy. The desperate.
The half-blind priest bolts the front door and gestures to the back of the church. “Me siga.”
I offer him a weak smile, ready to follow him to the only place I thought to hide when Tristan sent me off. With no hesitation, Padre Antonio agreed to give us shelter here tonight. He asked for nothing in return. Even as I am growing to distrust nearly everyone, I have faith in his genuine kindness.
Seeming to sense my somber mood, he pauses and touches my arm gently. His skin is dry and warm to the touch. The simple kindness wraps around me, threatening to unravel my quickly fraying emotions. I blink back tears.
He hushes me and speaks softly in Portuguese. “Rest here, Isabel. Come back when you are ready.” Without another word, he walks away, leaving me alone with my thoughts in the empty hall.
I haven’t stepped foot in a place of worship for years. Not since Grace’s funeral. My parents all but turned their backs on Tristan’s tragedy, and in turn, I turned my back on the traditions of our faith.
Still, something faint rings inside me. I can’t remember a time when I’ve needed hope more.
Careful not to disturb the silence, I move up the narrow aisle. Whatever drew me to the church gate yesterday with Tristan on my heels compels me now into the pew and onto my knees. I lean forward, anxiety tight in my belly. The lacquered wood is warm under my palms and against my forehead. A small comfort. I exhale heavily, racked with worry and fatigue.
This unexpected journey with Tristan, fighting for our lives and more, has turned me inside out. It’s made me raw and weak and aimless. Yet even as I long for the safety and security I took for granted every day before, I can’t deny wanting to save Tristan from this nightmare too. I have no idea how I can, though. I’ve never felt more powerless in my life, flung from place to place, kept in the dark by the lover of my past.
How can the broken man I still care for beyond reason be the one to save me? Can he even save himself?
I’m miles from Tristan, but I pray he hears me.
Please.
Please come back to me. Please live.
Please fight for us… Survive for us… Remember us…
Over and over, I whisper my deepest pleas. All the while, visions of the horrific acts I witnessed earlier consume me. I grip the back of the pew tightly, refusing to believe the same fate could come upon Tristan. He’s too strong. Too determined. Too broken to let them win…
I squeeze my eyes against tears. He’s not dead. I’d feel it if he were. I’d know. There’d be an earthquake in my soul. Some kind of sign.
I look up at the cartoonish figure before me. No change in his peaceful countenance. I don’t bow my head again, because this is no longer a quiet prayer. I’m as desperate now as all the troubled, poor, and sick souls who’ve passed through these doors and bruised their knees on the crude floor.
“Help me save him,” I utter amidst the quiet crackle of candles. “Tell me what to do.”
A door slams in the back. I grip the pew with knuckle-whitening force. My heart stutters and then launches into wild beats. Then I hear his voice mingled with the priest’s.
“Tristan.”
I scramble to my feet as he appears from the hallway. He’s disheveled and dirty and bloody, but sweet mercy, he’s alive.
I run toward him and throw my arms around him. “You’re alive.” The word tears like a sob from my throat.
“You’re safe,” he whispers against my hair, holding me almost painfully tight against him.
I mold myself to him as if the surface of my body needs proof of his existence. The more we touch, the more real this is. He catches me closer still.
Only then do I remember the barriers that still exist between us. The reality that came between us last time we were this close. I untangle from our embrace and take a small step back.
“Sorry. I just… I thought you were dead. I was so scared.”
“Not today.”
His hands fall to his sides. Then I realize the blood he’s covered in is his own. A strip of cloth is wound tightly around his upper arm, seeping red and wet. I blink rapidly over my tears and swallow down all the emotion that wants to bubble up.
“You’re hurt.”
“It’s okay. It’s nothing.”
“Nothing? You’re bleeding, Tristan. You need a doctor.”
He laughs lightly. “Hardly. I should clean it though.”
I take his hand and lead him back down the hallway to the room the priest promised was ours for the night. The back of the church consists of a desk in the corner, several wooden shelves with old musty books, and a small twin bed that seems freshly made. Before I can ask for cleaning supplies, Antonio emerges from a tiny bathroom with a bowl of water, gauze, and disinfectant gathered up in his arms.
I rush to him. “Here. Let me help you.”
I take the supplies and lay them out on the desk with shaking hands.
“He is your friend?” He speaks in a hushed tone that only I can hear.
His expression is pinched with concern. I can’t imagine how this looks to him. He must know we’re in trouble—or that Tristan is. I glance back to Tristan, who is looking out the windows.
“He’s a friend, yes. Thank you for everything,” I answer quietly.
“Here.” Tristan comes closer, reaching into his bag with his wounded arm and withdrawing a brick of reals.
The father steps back like the offering might burn him. “No, no.”
“Tristan, he doesn’t want it. Come sit so I can dress your wound.”
Tristan stares at the old man, his gaze stoic. “No one can know we’re here. Do you understand?” His Portuguese is heavily nuanced with his American accent.
The father waves his hand again and shakes his head. “You are safe here. I can assure you. I will leave you now. I will bring you food in the morning. Yes?”
Tristan’s frown deepens, but I step between them and place a hand on the priest’s shoulder.
“Thank you. We are so grateful.”
The old man offers me an uneasy smile. Tristan makes him nervous, but I’m beginning to understand why. This is life and death now.
“I will come check on you in the morning,” Antonio says before shuffling out, leaving us alone once more.
“I should have had you give it to him.” Tristan drops the money onto the desk and tugs his T-shirt over his head, leaving only the bloody dressing on his arm.
“He doesn’t need a bribe. He only wants to help.”
“We’ll see,” he mutters. “Are you sure you can handle this?” He glances down and slowly begins unwrapping the dressing.
I swallow hard. Blood has never made me squeamish, but seeing Tristan hurt seems to trigger physical pain of my own. I feel it on the surface of my skin, a painful prickling in my fingertips.
“If you’re not going to see a doctor and get this taken care of properly, then I don’t suppose I have much choice.”
“You know why we can’t.”
“I know,” I say, resigned to these new circumstances by which we’re bound. I recognize we’re in a space where life and death supersede creature comforts. Like a hospital. A hotel. A home.
I collect a cloth and dip it into the warm water. Carefully I work to get the wound clean, hoping to minimize Tristan’s discomfort, though he seems barely affected.
“That looks better.”
“Told you it’d be fine. Just grazed me.”
I roll my eyes, because even though the damage is clean and less gory, the bullet that “grazed” him took a long trail of flesh with it. Even now, I can see it’ll be another scar that no amount of care can prevent. Yet nothing about this seems to give Tristan pause.
“Who were those men, Tristan? Why did Mateus call them your comrades?”
He gazes toward the ceiling as I dab antiseptic on the wound. He doesn’t flinch or speak.
“I don’t understand why they want me dead. What could I have done to bring all this on?”
“I’m guessing you didn’t do anything. But sometimes innocent people can get caught in the crossfire if they’re standing too close to the bad guys.”