Status Updates From Death Comes for the Archbishop

Book club 🙌🙌

The wind, he knew, was blowing out of the inky cloud bank that lay behind the mountain at sunset, but it might well be blowing out of a remote, black past [of white men ravishing the Pecos people of their resources, health, and people]. The only human voice raised against it was the feeble wailing of the sick child in the cradle. Clara ate noiselessly in a corner, Jacinto looked into the fire.

At this moment Father Joseph was lying dangerously ill in the dirt and discomfort of a village in winter. Why, the Bishop was asking himself, had he ever brought his friend to this life of hardship and danger?