“It’s been peachy. Oh, no, wait! I almost forgot!” The priest reached into a pocket of his coat and extracted something. “This was his,” he said. Chris looked down at the holy medal and chain that was cupped in Dyer’s open and upraised hand. “Saint Christopher. I thought you might like to have it.” For long, silent moments Chris stared down at the medal thoughtfully, her brow lightly furrowed as if debating some decision; then, slowly, she reached out a hand, took the medal, slipped it into a pocket of her coat and said to Dyer, “Thanks, Father. Yeah. Yeah, I would.”
