“Why move to Oakridge now?” I asked.

“Because Oakridge Community Hospital listed you as resident chaplain in their weekly bulletin,” she said.

“That was no accident, Tommy.”

“You came home for parish care?” I asked.

“I came back because I need a pastor who’s on the official county registry,” she said, laying her hands flat over the thin blanket.

“And I don’t have three months to throw away waiting for somebody to call me back.”

By two that afternoon, the sun had moved behind the stained glass windows of the church office, throwing long blue shadows across the floor.