[image error]“My daddy used to say if there’s breath in your lungs, there can be gratitude on your tongue,” Donna said—or something like it—as she shifted her weight on the altar, her jumpsuit rippling like stones across water.

That’s nice, I thought to myself from the pew. But I am too tired for thanks. And what would I give thanks for? Everything, right? And what good would that do? Nothing, almost. I’d still be here in this church, hands balled hard as sinking rocks.

Nothing was wrong, exactly, except...