The face outside was a boy’s face. Fifteen or sixteen, eyes downcast. He looked like one of the congregation, arriving for confession. But he was one of them.
“Somebody wants to speak to you,” he said, whispering.
Father Angelo hesitated. The boy was alone. This was more like an invitation than a demand; he could refuse.
“Just let me get dressed,” he said.
He followed the boy through the dark streets. Nobody else was around, but soldiers were always a possibility. The boy kept to the shadows, away from the light, and Father Angelo stayed close behind. It…
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