Chapter 4
SAMUEL
The district meeting room smelled of furniture polish and anxiety.
Four grey folding chairs arranged in a semicircle faced Elder Kempton's pristine desk—the same setup in every mission apartment I'd seen, as if the uniformity itself could ward off apostasy.
I'd arrived early, of course, my planner already open to the weekly goals worksheet, pen poised.
Vance had dragged himself in exactly on time, coffee-deprived and sullen, dropping into the chair beside me with enough force to make the metal legs screech against the tile.
Elders Moss and Brown slouched across from us, whispering and snickering like schoolboys in sacrament meeting.
"Dude, seriously," Brown hissed, leaning in close to Moss. He was from somewhere in California, sun-bleached hair falling past his collar in direct violation of the grooming standards. "You can’t go around asking people if they want to mojar el churro."
"Why not?" Moss whispered back, looking genuinely confused as he scratched at his patchy beard. "It means 'wet the churro.' Dip it in the chocolate. That’s how you eat them."
"It’s an idiom, you idiot." Brown’s face was turning a blotchy red. "In Spain, mojar el churro doesn't just mean dipping a pastry. It means... getting your wick wet. Having sex."
Moss froze. "No way."
"Yes way. The abuela at the market? You basically asked her if she wanted to get laid."
"I didn't ask her," Moss defended, though his voice squeaked. "I asked if she helped her husband mojar el churro every morning."
Beside me, Vance made a sound like a strangled cough. I stared resolutely at the wall, willing my ears to stop burning, while Brown buried his face in his hands.
"She laughed," Moss muttered, looking horrified. "She laughed and gave me an extra one for free. I thought she was just being nice."
They dissolved into stifled laughter—Moss out of shock, Brown out of delight—the kind of easy, thoughtless mirth that hadn't touched my chest in months.
Maybe longer. I watched them with something uncomfortable twisting beneath my sternum—not quite envy, not quite contempt.
They'd been out for twenty-one months, both of them.
Trunky as hell, counting down the days until their flights home, and utterly unconcerned with the fact that they were accidentally propositioning elderly women in the market.
Vance shifted beside me, and I caught the barest quirk at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile. Just that infuriating hint that he found the whole spectacle amusing.
The door to the room swung open, and Elder Kempton emerged like a general surveying troops who'd already failed inspection.
Twenty years old. Three months from release.
Kempton wore his authority the way other missionaries wore their name tags—pinned directly over his heart, impossible to miss.
His shirt had been ironed within an inch of its life, creases sharp enough to draw blood.
Not a single dark hair out of place. His scriptures—leather-bound, gilded, annotated in colour-coded tabs—rested in the crook of his arm like holy writ handed down from Sinai.
He didn't sit. He stood behind the desk, hands clasped, and let the silence stretch until Moss and Brown's laughter died into nervous throat-clearing.
"Elders." His voice carried the flat, measured cadence of someone who'd practised this speech. Probably in the mirror. "Shall we begin with an opening hymn, or would you prefer to continue your discussion of fried dough?"
Brown's face went crimson. Moss studied his shoes.
"Hymn it is." Kempton's smile never reached his eyes. "Number 169. 'As I Have Loved You.' Brother Moss, if you'd be so kind as to conduct."
Moss stumbled to his feet, flapping his hand in an approximation of the proper three-four time while the rest of us mumbled through the verses.
My voice cracked on the second line—With compassion and with caring, With patience and with love—and I focused instead on keeping my planner perfectly aligned with the edge of my chair.
The hymn felt like indictment. Like every word had been specifically chosen to remind me how thoroughly I was failing.
I tried to focus on the hymnbook, on the notes and the lyrics about love and patience. But Eli was too close.
The metal legs of our chairs were touching. Every time he shifted his weight, the movement vibrated through the frame and into my own leg. He wasn't singing, just mouthing the words with a bored, lidded expression, but I could hear his breathing.
I stared at his hands resting on his knees.
His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, revealing forearms that were dusted with dark hair and veined with ink stains from his morning sketching.
I had a sudden, violent urge to reach out and touch the pulse point on his wrist, just to see if it was racing as fast as mine.
Stop it, I commanded myself, gripping the hymnbook so tight the cover bent. Look at Kempton. Look at the Saviour on the wall. Look anywhere but at him.
"Brother Vance." Kempton's tone could've frozen Barcelona harbour. "Perhaps you'll offer our opening prayer."
Beside me, Vance went still. Not the stillness of reverence—the stillness of a fox that had just spotted the hounds.
"Sure." He rose with deliberate slowness, folded his arms, bowed his head. "Dear Heavenly Father, we're grateful to be here this morning. We ask thee to bless this meeting, that we might feel thy Spirit and, uh, remember why we're doing this. Help us to teach with sincerity and—"
"With power," Kempton interrupted, eyes still closed. "We teach with power and authority, Elder Vance. Not sincerity. We hold the priesthood."
Vance's jaw tightened. I watched the muscle jump beneath his skin, watched him swallow whatever response had clawed its way up his throat.
"—with power," he continued, voice flat. "In the name of Jesus Christ, amen."
"Amen." Kempton opened his eyes, already flipping through a leather notebook that probably contained a ranked list of our collective inadequacies. "Thank you, Elder Vance. Though in future, I'd appreciate prayers that reflect a proper understanding of our sacred calling."
He let that hang in the air—poisonous, pointed—before turning to me.
"Elder Price." The shift in his tone was immediate. Warmth flooded in where ice had been. "I understand your area has seen remarkable progress. President Dalton mentioned the Moreno family is preparing for baptism?"
My throat went dry. "We're, uh, we're working with them. Sister Moreno has expressed interest in attending church this Sunday."
"Outstanding." Kempton actually smiled, the expression transforming his angular face into something almost approachable. "That's the kind of dedication we need from our district. You've been out, what, fourteen months now?"
"Fifteen."
"Fifteen months of faithful service. Zero early transfers. Exemplary companionship with Elder Hoffman before his release." He glanced meaningfully at Vance. "President Dalton chose your placement carefully, Elder Price. Your influence is desperately needed."
The compliment should have felt good. Should have settled warm in my chest, confirmation that I was doing what Father expected, what the Lord required. Instead, it sat like a stone in my stomach, heavy and cold. Because Kempton wasn't praising me. He was using me as a cudgel to beat Vance with.
Vance had gone perfectly expressionless. That careful, practiced neutrality I'd seen him deploy against President Dalton, against the Catalan grandmothers who'd slammed doors in our faces, against me when I'd pushed too hard about companion study. He stared at the wall, breathing slow and even.
"Which brings me," Kempton continued, setting down his notebook with theatrical precision, "to a matter of some concern."
Here it comes, I thought. My fingers tightened around my pen.
"I've been reviewing the district's statistics, and I'm troubled by what I'm seeing.
Or rather, what I'm not seeing." He turned his attention to Moss and Brown, who'd somehow managed to slouch even further in their seats.
"Elders, your teaching numbers have been abysmal. Three lessons in the past week? Three?"
"We had to travel for—" Brown started.
"Excuses." Kempton's voice cracked like a whip. "You had to travel for zone conference, which consumed exactly four hours of one day. That leaves you with, what, a hundred and twenty-five remaining hours of your week? And you managed three lessons."
Moss opened his mouth, closed it. Shrugged.
"This is your mission," Kempton said, leaning forward, palms flat on the desk.
"Not a Mediterranean vacation. Not a chance to sample every pastry between here and Tarragona.
This is the Lord's work, and you've been called to consecrate your time and talents to building His kingdom. Do you understand that?"
"Yeah," Moss muttered. "Yes, Elder."
"I sincerely hope so." Kempton straightened, adjusting his tie. "Because the Saviour didn't die on the cross so you could spend your mornings hunting down churros con chocolate instead of searching for His lost sheep."
Brown's ears had gone scarlet. Beside me, Vance made a sound—tiny, aborted—that might have been a laugh dying in his throat.
Kempton's gaze snapped to him. "Something amusing, Elder Vance?"
"No." Vance's face remained carefully blank. "Nothing."
"Because I'm glad you're entertained." Kempton picked up his notebook again, flipped through pages with sharp, angry movements.
"Given that your own statistics are equally concerning.
Five discussions this week—better than our slacker companions here, I'll grant you that—but your baptismal goals remain at zero.
No potential dates. No investigators progressing toward the font. "
"We're working with—"
"Elder Price is working with the Moreno family," Kempton cut him off. "You've been in the area for one week, Elder Vance. One week, and already I'm hearing reports that concern me."
My stomach dropped. Reports. From whom? We'd barely interacted with anyone outside our companionship except—
Except Maria.
"I received a call from Elder Torres yesterday," Kempton said, confirming my fears. "He mentioned running into you and Elder Price at Parc de la Ciutadella. Said you were sitting alone. Sketching."
Vance said nothing. His knuckles had gone white where his hands gripped his knees.
"That's not accurate," I heard myself say. The words came out stronger than I felt. "Elder Vance was street contacting. We'd split up to cover more ground."
Kempton's eyebrows rose. "Is that so."
"Yes." The lie tasted like ash, but I forced it out anyway. "He was sitting near the fountain because it's a high-traffic area. Good visibility for approaching people."
"And the sketching?"
"A conversation starter." Another lie, smoother now. Father had always said I was good at thinking on my feet during business negotiations. Apparently, that skill translated. "Elder Vance is an artist. It's an effective way to build rapport with locals."
For the first time since the meeting started, Kempton looked uncertain. His gaze flicked between us, searching for the crack in our unified front.
"I see." He set the notebook down slowly. "And did this, uh, artistic street contacting result in any teaching opportunities?"
"We have an appointment Saturday," Vance said quietly. "Art student. Maria Castellanos. She's interested in learning more about our beliefs regarding family."
Truth and lies, woven together so seamlessly I almost believed it myself. Almost forgot the way Maria had challenged us, the way Vance had agreed with her criticisms, the fury I'd felt walking back to the apartment in silence.
Kempton studied us for a long, uncomfortable moment.
"Very well," he said finally. "I expect to hear a full report on Saturday's discussion at next week's meeting. And Elder Vance?"
"Yes?"
"The mission field is not an art studio.
Your calling is to preach the gospel with every breath, every moment.
Not to pursue, uh, creative hobbies on the Lord's time.
" He smiled, and it was the smile of a man who believed absolutely in his own righteousness.
"I trust you understand the difference between building the kingdom and building your portfolio. "
"I understand." Vance's voice had gone dead. Empty.
"Excellent." Kempton clapped his hands together, the sound sharp in the small room. "Now. Let's discuss our district goals for the coming week. Elder Price, why don't you start us off?"