‘Coffee, doughnut?’ Father Forthill asked. I sat down at the table. ‘Father, you’ve never been closer to converting me.’ He laughed. ‘The Fantastic Forthill, saving souls one Danish at a time.’ He produced the nectar of the gods themselves in Dunkin Donuts paper sacks and Styrofoam cups, taking some for himself as well. ‘I’ve always admired your ability to make jokes when faced with adversity.
