Groaning, I grabbed my aching head and found something sticky coating my hair, the scalp beneath tender and raw. The trilling sound of several voices singing in harmony only made the ache worse. I was suddenly reminded of attending church as a child. Every Sunday we’d wear our prettiest dresses, my sister and I, my mother as well, and my father would wear his perfectly pressed suit. The minister had been a grumpy old bastard. Never a smile for anyone, not even for the well-behaved children who’d sat patiently and quietly for fear he’d scold them. In fact, as I’d grown older, it had become a longstanding joke between my father and me as we debated the reason behind that old man’s misery. When I was finally able to pry my heavy eyes open, it wasn’t only the sound of singing that reminded me of my childhood. I was seated in a church—the front pew, to be precise—and there was a choir standing off to my right singing the last hymn, a benediction I knew by heart. Similarities aside, the minister standing behind the podium was the exact opposite of my minister.
