Twice a week, the young woman came to the priest. Everything had been prearranged. All she had to do was make sure the priest wasn’t lonely. She learned not to pay attention to the name he called her, always the same name. Many nights, all the priest wanted to do was hold her and caress her face. He whispered into her long hair about a life together and a child. The young woman learned to ignore things like this too. He wasn’t speaking to her. She could see the intense passion in his eyes when they lay together. She could see the tortured desperation that covered his face when she stood to leave. It was the same expression that melted as soon as the priest locked eyes on her. No one had ever looked at her that way before, pinned their hopes and happiness on her presence. The only problem, the priest was looking at her, but he was seeing...