Chapter 2
ELIAS
The alarm screamed at six-thirty, ripping me from a dream I couldn't remember. I slapped at my radio alarm clock until it shut up, then lay there staring at the ceiling, counting cracks in the plaster.
Elder Price's bed was already empty, covers pulled military-tight.
I could hear him in the bathroom—the rush of water, the quiet murmur of what might've been prayer.
Of course he was praying. Probably thanking God for the opportunity to serve another glorious day, asking for strength to deal with his slacker companion, requesting divine intervention to make me less of a complete disaster.
I dragged myself up, pulled on my last clean white shirt, and stumbled to the kitchen.
Elder Price was already dressed, hair combed, scripture bag packed. He stood at the counter eating muesli from a bowl, his triple combination open beside him, sticky notes bristling from the pages like neon quills.
"Good morning, Elder Vance."
"Morning."
I grabbed the instant coffee I'd hidden behind the cereal boxes, then remembered. Right. Mormon apartment. Mormon companion. No coffee.
"We have Postum," Elder Price offered, not looking up from Alma chapter thirty-two.
"I'm good."
I poured myself water instead, leaned against the counter, and watched him read. His lips moved slightly, forming words. His index finger traced the lines of text like he was absorbing them through his skin.
"Companion study starts at seven," he said.
"I'm aware."
"I thought we could focus on Preach My Gospel chapter three today. 'What Do I Study and Teach?'"
"Sounds thrilling."
Finally, he looked up. "You have a better suggestion?"
"I was planning to actually study."
"That's what I just—"
"My own stuff. Not the manual."
His jaw tightened. "Personal study is at six. Companion study is meant to be done together."
"Right. Together." I drained my water glass. "I'll get my scriptures."
I grabbed my quad from the bedroom—a battered paperback I'd bought used, margins already filled with someone else's notes—and returned to find Elder Price had moved to the small table by the window.
He'd set out his scriptures, his journal, his Preach My Gospel manual, and a colour-coded set of highlighters.
Jesus Christ.
"So," he said as I sat down. "Chapter three emphasizes the importance of teaching by the Spirit, not relying solely on memorized lessons. It says that as we study the scriptures daily, we'll be prepared to—"
"Elder Price."
He paused, highlighter hovering over the page.
"Do we actually have to do this?"
"Do what?"
"This." I gestured at his arsenal of study materials. "The manual. The highlighting. The... performance."
"It's not a performance. It's companion study."
"You study. I'll study. We'll be in the same room. That's companion enough."
Something flickered across his face—hurt, maybe, or anger. Hard to tell with the way he kept everything locked down so tight.
"Fine," he said quietly. "Study whatever you want."
He bent over his manual, shoulders rigid, and began reading.
I opened my quad to a random page—ended up in Ecclesiastes—and tried to focus. But the silence between us had weight, pressing down like humidity before a storm.
After twenty minutes, I gave up on scripture study and pulled out my sketchbook instead.
I shaded the line of his jaw, pressing the charcoal harder than necessary. That was the annoying thing about Elder Price. He should have been easy to hate—a rigid, rule-quoting automaton with a stick up his ass. But he was also infuriatingly symmetrical.
The morning light caught the sharp plane of his cheekbone and the gold in his hair, and my fingers itched to capture it. It was a waste, really. A face like that, wasted on a guy who probably thought smiling without a permit was a sin.
I watched his throat work as he swallowed a spoonful of muesli. The strong column of his neck, the way his Adam's apple moved. I looked away, irritated with myself. Great. He’s a robot, but he’s a hot robot. This is going to be a long transfer.
"What are you drawing?"
I looked up. He was watching me, manual forgotten.
"Nothing. Just... the room."
"Can I see?"
"It's not finished."
"I'd still like to see it."
Dangerous. But I turned the sketchbook around anyway.
He studied the page, his expression unreadable. "That's... you're really good."
"Thanks."
"Is that me?"
"Might be."
"You captured the light well. The shadows." He paused. "I look angry."
"Do you?"
Our eyes met. Held.
"We should get ready for tracting," he said, closing his manual. "President Dalton assigned us the buildings on Carrer de Lepant. We'll need to leave by nine to cover the full area before lunch."
Tracting. Door-to-door cold-calling, trying to sell people a religion they didn't want. My absolute favourite missionary activity.
Elder Price had a system, naturally. He'd divided our assigned buildings into sections, calculated how many doors we could knock per hour, and planned our route to maximize efficiency. He even had a goal: twenty meaningful conversations, five return appointments.
"Ready?" he asked as we stood in front of the first apartment building.
"As I'll ever be."
He pressed the buzzer for apartment 1A.
No answer.
1B. 1C. 1D.
Finally, a crackling voice through the intercom: "?Sí?"
Elder Price launched into his memorized introduction, voice bright and confident. "Buenos días, senora. Somos misioneros de La Iglesia de Jesucristo de los Santos de los últimos Días. We're sharing a message about—"
The intercom went dead.
"That's one," I muttered.
He shot me a look and pressed the next buzzer.
We worked through the entire first building. Forty-three apartments. Two people actually opened their doors—an elderly man who told us he was Catholic and not interested, and a woman who accepted a pamphlet just to make us leave.
"Good contact with the woman in 3C," Elder Price said, marking it in his planner. "She took the material. We should follow up next week."
"She took it so we'd go away."
"You don't know that."
"I absolutely know that."
He clenched his planner. "You know your negativity isn't helping, Elder Vance."
"Neither is your denial."
"I'm not in denial. I'm being optimistic."
"No, you're being delusional."
We stared at each other in the dingy apartment hallway, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.
"Second building," Elder Price said tightly. "Let's go."
The second building went worse. The third building, someone threatened to call the police. By the fourth building, we weren't speaking at all—just buzzing apartments in grim silence, delivering our memorized lines to closed doors and hostile voices.
At one o'clock, Elder Price checked his planner. "We've had six meaningful conversations. No return appointments yet, but—"
"Those weren't meaningful conversations. Those were people being polite while waiting for us to leave."
"Sister Rodríguez in building two was genuinely interested in—"
"Sister Rodríguez was eighty years old and lonely. She would've talked to anyone."
Elder Price's face flushed. "So we should've just ignored her? Not offered her the gospel because she was lonely?"
"We should've offered her actual human connection instead of a sales pitch."
"It's not a sales pitch!"
"It absolutely is! 'We have a message that will bring you happiness. Can we come back and share it with you?' That's textbook cold-calling!"
"It's testifying of truth!"
"It's reciting a script!"
A door opened down the hall. A man stuck his head out, glared at us, and said something sharp in Catalan that definitely meant shut the hell up.
"Sorry," I called. "Disculpe."
The door slammed.
Elder Price grabbed his shoulder bag. "Lunch. Now."
We ate bocadillos from a corner shop in silence, sitting on a bench in a small park. Elder Price chewed mechanically, eyes fixed on the middle distance. I watched pigeons fight over a dropped pastry.
"Do you even want to be here, Elder?"
His voice was quiet. Controlled. But underneath—fury.
I looked at him. "What?"
"I asked if you even want to be here. On a mission. In Spain. Because from where I'm sitting, it seems like you'd rather be literally anywhere else."
"I'm here, aren't I?"
"Physically. But you're not present. You're not trying. You're just... going through the motions and criticizing everyone who actually cares."
"I care."
"About what? Sketching? Being cynical? Tearing down every effort I make to actually do the work we're called to do?"
Heat flared in my chest. "You want to know what I care about, Elder Price? I care about not lying to people. Not manipulating them with emotional pressure tactics. Not baptizing families when half of them don't even believe."
"The Morenos—"
"Are a perfect example! You're going to push Sofia into baptism because Dalton told you to, even though her father doesn't support it, and in six months they'll be inactive because there's no foundation. But hey, you'll get your number, right? Another baptism to report."
Elder Price stood up so fast he nearly knocked over his water bottle. "You think that's what this is about? Numbers? You think I'm out here every day, knocking doors, teaching lessons, because I want to impress President Dalton?"
"Aren't you?"
"I'm here because I believe in this! Because I know—I know—that the gospel can change lives, heal families, bring people to Christ. I've seen it happen!"
"You've seen people join a church."
"I've seen miracles!"
"You've seen what you wanted to see!"
We faced each other across the park bench, both breathing hard.
"Why are you here?" Elder Price asked again, quieter now. "Really. If you don't believe, if you think it's all manipulation and sales tactics, why did you come?"
The honest answer stuck in my throat. Because my mother begged me. Because her marriage is falling apart and the church is the only thing holding her together and she thinks if I serve a mission, God will bless our family. Because I love her more than I hate this.
"Because I made a commitment," I said instead.
"That's not good enough."
"It's going to have to be."
Elder Price picked up his shoulder bag, his expression shuttered again. "We have three more buildings to tract this afternoon. Let's go."
"Elder Price—"
"Let's. Go."
He walked away, his back rigid, his hands clenched around his bag straps.
I sat on the bench for another minute, watching the pigeons, feeling the afternoon sun on my face.
Sixteen months, I thought. How the hell am I going to survive sixteen months?
Then I got up and followed him.