Natasha looked a wreck, like someone who had been crying nonstop for a couple of hours, but the mother superior had known her for as long as Natasha had known Monsignor Dorélien, and she took her in with a sea of wordless warmth. She had a nun, Sister Hopstaken, show Natasha to her room and told Natasha to make herself at home. The room was down a long blue hall and up a few wooden stairs. Natasha came to the convent expecting to live in a cell worthy of one of America’s nightmarish prisons. Instead, she got a room with a small wooden desk topped with a black leather King James Bible and a bed with simple linens. Her new nun’s robe hung on a hanger in a closet, and she began to change clothes. Outside her window, the view of Port-au-Prince was spectacular. On the best days, like today, Kenscoff was almost an hour’s drive on top of Pétionville. The quartier was the last posh neighborhood in Port-au-Prince, famous for its five-star restaurants and cold nights. It had been known to snow there.
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