Chapter 1
SAMUEL
I pressed my palms flat against my thighs, smoothing out wrinkles that didn't exist in my black slacks.
My scriptures sat squared on the corner of the desk, edges aligned with the wood grain.
The apartment—our apartment, though Elder Morrison had only been here in body for the last three weeks—gleamed.
I'd scrubbed the kitchen tiles at five-thirty, before my shower, after my prayer.
After my usual prayer.
"Elder Price?" President Dalton's voice carried through the door, warm and certain. Everything about President Dalton was certain. "May we come in?"
I stood, tugged my tie straight, and opened the door.
President Dalton filled the doorway, silver-haired and solid, his smile already in place.
Behind him stood a stranger. Tall—taller than me by two inches, maybe three.
Dark hair that wanted to curl at the temples despite obvious efforts to gel it into submission.
Hollow cheeks. A name tag that read Elder Vance in the same black letters as mine, but somehow his looked.
.. crooked. Not crooked. Just worn at the edges, like he'd been rubbing his thumb over it.
"Elder Price." President Dalton gripped my hand, his handshake firm and brief. "I trust you've been well?"
"Yes, President. Thank you."
"Good, good. The Lord provides." He stepped inside, and Elder Vance followed, carrying a single duffel bag and a beaten leather messenger bag that definitely wasn't from the approved missionary packing list. "This is Elder Elias Vance, transferring from the Madrid zone.
Elder Vance, this is Elder Samuel Price.
I'm confident you'll find him an exemplary companion.
He's one of our finest—fluent in Spanish already, consistent baptisms, district leader material. "
Heat crept up my neck. "I just try to serve, President."
"And you serve well." President Dalton clapped my shoulder, then turned to Elder Vance. "Elder Price will help you get oriented. I expect you'll learn a great deal from him."
Elder Vance's gaze swept the apartment—the spotless kitchen, the perfectly made twin beds across from one another, the laminated daily schedule I'd taped to the wall—and something flickered across his face. Amusement? Resignation?
"Sure," he said. "Looking forward to it."
President Dalton consulted his watch. "I'll leave you to get acquainted. Elder Vance, your Spanish is already solid, I'm told, so you should be teaching by the end of the week. Elder Price will brief you on your current investigators. You have the Moreno family on Thursday, yes?"
"Yes, President. Six o'clock."
"Excellent. Gentlemen." He shook our hands again, squeezed past Elder Vance, and disappeared down the stairwell.
The door clicked shut.
Silence pooled between us, thick and strange.
Elder Vance dropped his duffel onto the bed on the left of the room—Morrison's old bed, my brain corrected automatically—and straightened, rolling his shoulders.
Up close, I could see the shadows under his eyes, the wrinkled collar of his white shirt, the small silver stud in his left ear that he definitely wasn't supposed to still have.
"So," he said. "You're the golden boy."
My stomach tightened. "I don't—"
"Relax. Wasn't an insult." He unzipped the duffel, started pulling out clothes. White shirts, all of them creased. "Just an observation. Dalton practically glowed when he talked about you."
"President Dalton is kind."
"President Dalton is desperate." Elder Vance shoved the shirts into the empty drawer I'd cleared that morning. "Madrid zone's bleeding missionaries. Homesickness, 'worthiness issues,' whatever. Guess they figured Barcelona was far enough away for a fresh start."
I didn't know what to say to that, so I said nothing. Instead, I watched him unpack—no system, no order, just clothes and books and a battered sketchbook that he tossed onto the desk next to my aligned scriptures. The contrast made my teeth ache.
"We have district meeting in an hour," I managed. "And then we're scheduled for street contacting near Sagrada Família from ten to noon. After lunch—"
"Let me guess. More contacting? Maybe some service? Dinner with a member family who'll ask us a million questions about Utah?"
"We're having dinner with the Ramos family. They've been members for fifteen years and they're very kind."
"I'm sure they are." He sat on the bed, untied his shoes—scuffed black dress shoes that had probably been nice once—and looked up at me. His eyes were hazel, more green than brown in the morning light. "Look, Elder Price. I'm going to be straight with you."
My heart lurched. Straight. What did he—
"I'm here because I screwed up in Madrid.
Not screwed screwed up, don't panic. I didn't break the law of chastity or whatever you're thinking.
" His mouth twisted. "I just... disagreed with my companion.
Loudly. About whether we should be spending four hours a day knocking doors in neighbourhoods where people literally cross the street to avoid us. "
"Door-to-door finding is an approved method—"
"Door-to-door finding is a waste of time and you know it." He leaned back on his elbows, watching me. "When's the last time you actually baptized someone you met knocking doors?"
Three months ago. The Castillo family. But they'd been less-active members returning to church, which maybe didn't count, and—
"We're called to serve however the Lord directs."
"Right." He sighed, absentmindedly scrubbing a hand through his hair.
The gel was definitely losing its battle.
"Okay. Here's the deal. I've got sixteen months left on this thing.
You're obviously a Book of Mormon thumping rule-follower, which is fine.
Great, even. I'll follow your lead, show up where I'm supposed to, smile at the families.
But I'm not going to pretend I'm having some kind of spiritual experience every time we memorize another discussion or whatever. Can you live with that?"
Could I?
I thought of Elder Morrison, who'd cried himself to sleep every night for two weeks before he finally called his parents and asked to come home.
Who'd whispered, the night before he left, that he couldn't feel anything here.
No Spirit, no answers, just... empty. I'd stayed up all night after he left, praying that it wasn't contagious, that doubt couldn't seep through walls.
And now here was Elder Vance, who apparently hadn't even bothered to hide his doubts.
"I can live with it," I said, "if you follow the mission rules."
"Sure thing, Scout's honour." He held up three fingers, the gesture somehow mocking. "White handbook, page one through whatever. Companion within sight and sound at all times, no unapproved media, lights out by ten-thirty. I know the drill."
"Good."
"Great." He stood, grabbed a fresh white shirt from the drawer. "I'm going to shower before this meeting. That cool?"
I nodded. He disappeared into the tiny bathroom, and a moment later I heard water running.
I sat at the desk, pulled my scriptures into my lap, let them fall open. Alma 37:37. Counsel with the Lord in all thy doings, and he will direct thee for good.
My fingers traced the verse I'd highlighted in yellow, then pink, then yellow again.
Please, I prayed silently. Please let this be different. Please let him not be a test. Please...
But I didn't finish the prayer, because I didn't know what I was asking for anymore.
ELIAS
District meeting was exactly as tedious as I'd expected.
Elder Price sat ramrod straight in the folding chair beside me, his scriptures open to the exact verse President Dalton referenced, his pen poised over his journal.
He took notes. Actual notes, in tiny, perfect handwriting, underlining key phrases like "obedience brings blessings" and "trust in the Lord's timing. "
I drew a small bird in a cage in the margin of my planner and tried not to fall asleep.
President Dalton was going on about baptism goals—each companionship was expected to have at least one per month—and the importance of "bold invitations.
" Around the room, eight other missionaries nodded with varying degrees of enthusiasm.
Most of them looked young. Younger than nineteen, even, though that was impossible.
Maybe it was just the exhaustion that made them look like kids playing dress-up.
"Elder Price," President Dalton said, and I felt Elder Price straighten even more beside me, which seemed physically improbable. "You and Elder Vance will continue with the Moreno family. How are they progressing?"
"Very well, President." Elder Price's voice carried that same earnest tone he'd used all morning. "Sister Moreno has read through Alma, and their daughter Sofia is preparing for baptism. We're working with Brother Moreno on the Word of Wisdom, but he's been attending church regularly."
"Wonderful. And have you invited them to set a date?"
A pause. Tiny, barely noticeable. "Not yet, President. I wanted to make sure the foundation was solid first."
"Faith precedes the miracle, Elder. Don't wait for perfection—invite them to act." President Dalton chastized. "I'd like to see Sofia baptized within the month. Can you commit to that?"
"Yes, President."
I glanced at Elder Price. A muscle jumped in his jaw, but his expression stayed neutral, pleasant. Obedient.
The meeting dragged on another twenty minutes—announcements about zone conference, reminders about weekly planning, a testimony from Elder somebody about how reading the Book of Mormon every day had helped him overcome homesickness.
Finally, President Dalton dismissed us with a prayer, and we filed out into the bright Barcelona morning.
"So," I said as we walked toward the metro. "The Moreno family. What's the actual situation?"
Elder Price adjusted his shoulder bag. "I told you. Sister Moreno is progressing well, Sofia wants to be baptized—"
"And Brother Moreno isn't interested."
"He's attending church."
"Because his wife is making him." I dodged a woman with a stroller, kept pace with Elder Price's brisk walk. "And now Dalton wants you to push for a baptism date anyway."
"It's not pushing. It's inviting them to act in faith."
"It's pressuring a fourteen-year-old girl to join a church her father doesn't believe in."
Elder Price stopped walking. Right there on the sidewalk, people flowing around us, he stopped and turned to face me. His eyes were blue. Bright, clear blue, and utterly furious.
"Do you believe any of this?" he asked quietly. "At all?"
Dangerous question. Dangerous answer.
"I believe," I said carefully, "that people should make their own choices. Not be manipulated into them."
"Teaching isn't manipulation."
"Setting arbitrary deadlines is."
His hands curled into fists at his sides, uncurled. "You've been here one day. One day. And you think you understand how missionary work functions?"
"I've been out eight months. Different city, same program."
"Then you should understand that we're called to teach with urgency. To help people recognize truth when they feel it, not let them drift in indecision until—"
"Until what? Until they stop feeling pressured and stop taking the discussions?"
A woman squeezed between us, muttering something in Catalan. Elder Price stepped back, his expression shuttering closed.
"We're going to be late for our finding time," he said.
"Right. Wouldn't want to be late."
We didn't speak on the metro. Didn't speak as we emerged near Sagrada Família, the cathedral's spires punching holes in the sky, tourists swarming the plaza with cameras and guidebooks.
Elder Price led us to a quieter corner, away from the main crowds, and pulled out a stack of pass-along cards—those little pamphlets with pictures of Jesus and the church's website.
"We'll work this section for an hour," he said, his voice back to that neutral, pleasant tone.
"Then move toward Carrer de Mallorca. Try to engage people in their language first—Spanish or Catalan, whichever they respond to.
If they seem interested, offer a card and ask if we can share a brief message about—"
"I know how to street contact, Elder Price."
"Of course." He handed me half the cards. "I just want to make sure we're unified in our approach."
Unified. Right.
I watched him approach the first person—a middle-aged man in a business suit, walking fast. Elder Price matched his pace, smiled, said something in rapid Spanish. The man waved him off without breaking stride. Elder Price didn't even flinch, just turned to find the next person.
Obedient. Persistent. Perfectly programmed.
I'd been like that once. In the MTC, in my first area in Madrid, I'd believed that if I just worked hard enough, followed the rules exactly, the Spirit would guide me to people who needed the gospel. That I'd feel... something. Some burning confirmation that I was doing the right thing.
Instead, I'd felt tired. And then angry. And then nothing at all.
"Excuse me." I offered a card to a young woman pushing a bike. "Do you have a moment to—"
"No, gracias."
"Of course. Have a good day."
She walked away. I pocketed the card and looked up to find Elder Price watching me from across the plaza, his expression unreadable.
Sixteen months, I reminded myself. Just sixteen more months, and then you're free.
But standing there, with Elder Price's blue eyes cutting through the space between us and the cathedral looming overhead like a beautiful, impossible promise, freedom felt very far away.