"I'm not moving to the other side of the world, guys—Newhampton's only a couple hours away."

The small band of surly stragglers stuffed garbage bags with used paper plates and Dixie cups. It had been Shep's last day at Saint Raymond's, observed with a post-Sunday School reception in the church basement and a sheet cake reading, "Let no one seek his own good, but the good of his neighbor—1 Corinthians 10:24."

"Father Alvez says you're going to a rich people church," Hector said, leaning against a beige column. There were still trailings of red and green streamers taped to it from before New Years.

"Father Alvez told you that?" Shep asked sharply, dropping a bundle of plastic forks.

"Well, he said 'Father Delaney's gotta go help the truly needy—those who's struggling to thread their needles,'" Hector expounded. He scuffed a sneaker on the linoleum.

"But we're not stupid, we know he's talking about that camel metaphor," Luis added sagely.

"Father Alvez's always saying stuff he thinks we won't get, like he's sooo clever. Like, what does he think we read down here every Sunday—Cat in the Hat?" Frieda snorted, rolling her eyes.

Shep suppressed a smile, reasonably sure he knew who had selected the quotation for his going-away cake. Father Alvez wasn't alone in his sentiments—Shep had heard variations on the same ricocheting around their concrete house of worship since he had announced his engagement—but he was the only one ballsy enough to put it in icing.

"Okay, yeah, a lot of my new parishioners are on the wealthy side," Shep conceded. He made no attempts at justification. If there was one commandment he had learned never to break in his four years peddling the gospel to pre-teens, it was Thou Shalt Not Bullshit.

"But remember, I'm still coming to visit the first Tuesday of every month. And I might be involved with some trips, and guest sermons. We'll see each other plenty."

Shep did feel a hollowness as he carried the last of the Hefty bags up from the basement, tossing them in the dumpster nestled beside Saint Raymond's sooty brick façade. It was neither ancient nor modern in its architecture, resembling an elementary school wing more than anything else. He felt a special communion with churches that boasted no divinity outright, compared to those whose vaulted ceilings and gilded altars would lay claim to God even when empty of the faithful. That being said, the view from Saint Christopher's inspired its own distinct ecstasy; it seemed obstinate to deny the wave of boundlessness that overcame him when he first stood on its stone stoop and saw the world laid out below him, blue forever. Why did it matter where he preached the word, and to whom, if he was earnest?

Frieda and Luis gave him gruff hugs and walked home, scarves wrapped over their noses against the January cold. Shep waited with Hector just inside the vestibule, the boy peering every minute or so out the fogged window for his brother's old white Pontiac. Shep felt a flare of confused sadness; there they went, shaking their heels of him, when he had thought he was the one moving on.

"If he doesn't show in a minute, I'm just taking the train," Hector muttered, but he didn't seem rushed. He regarded Shep askance. "Why you moving out to the Hamptons anyway?"

He drawled "Hamptons" in his best Downton Abbey accent.

"Robin's dad left him the house ten years ago," Shep explained. "We'll keep his apartment too, so he doesn't have to commute every day, but I thought it would be nice to live someplace quieter, at least for a bit. I'm from a small town, you know."

"I think I'd get bored."

Shep smiled. "Thank God you live here, then."

Two sharp horn blasts shattered the chill air. Hector pulled on his parka.

"Thank God I ain't ever had a choice!" he laughed. He stuck out his mittened hand and Shep shook it, amused. They waved to each other until the Pontiac screeched around the corner and was gone.