I pass the church and cross the road, tutting at the black tire marks on the asphalt, and slip into the phone booth next to the bus stop. Tucking the receiver between my shoulder and cheek, I dial the number. The line rings three times, then it clicks into the voicemail service. “You have reached Sinners Anonymous,” a woman’s robotic voice says. “Please leave your sin after the tone.” After the long beep, I take a deep breath and let my soul bleed.
