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“But as what? I need you to tell me that I’m not a spoon! That I’m not a teapot!”
“You make no sense. Please, there are people waiting.”
“No! This is important! I need you to tell me . . . . I need to know . . . if I qualify as a human being.”
“You must know that the church has not taken an official position on unwinding.”
“That’s not what I’m asking.”
“Yes, yes, I know it’s not. I know. I know.”
“In your opinion as a man of the cloth . . .”
“You ask too much of me. I am here to give absolution, nothing more.”
“But you have an opinion, don’t you?”
“ . . .”
“When you first heard of me?”
“ . . .”
“What was that opinion, Father?”
“It is neither my place to say, nor your place to ask!”
“But I do ask!”
“It is not to your benefit to hear!”
“Then you’re being tested, Father. This is your test: Will you tell the truth, or will you lie to me in your own confessional?”
“My opinion . . .”
“Yes . . .”
“My opinion . . . was that your arrival in this world marked the end of all things we hold dear. But that opinion was borne of fear and ignorance. I admit that! And today I see the awful reflection of my own petty judgments. Do you understand?”
“ . . .”
“I confess that I am humbled by your question. How can I speak to whether or not you carry a divine spark?”
“A simple yes or no will do.”
“No one on earth can answer that question, Mr. Comprix—and you should run from anyone who claims they can.”
• • •
Cam wanders the streets aimlessly, not knowing or caring where he is. He’s sure that Roberta has put out a search party already.
And what happens when they find him? They’ll take him home. Roberta will soundly chastise him. Then she’ll forgive him. And then tomorrow, or the next day, or the next, he’ll try on the crisp uniform hanging on the back of his door, he’ll like how it looks, and he’ll allow himself to be transferred to his new owners.
He knows it’s inevitable. And he also knows that the day that happens is the day any spark he has within him will die forever.
A bus approaches down the street, its headlights bobbing as it hits a pothole. Cam could take that bus home. He could take it far away. But neither of those choices is the idea pinioning his mind at that moment.
And so he prays in nine languages, to a dozen deities—to Jesus, to Yahweh, to Allah, to Vishnu, to the “I” of the universe, and even to a great godless void.
