Last night, when he’d seen Hawk’s face, he’d thought his heart would collapse into itself. He’d forced himself to keep talking to Father Molnar, pouring forth chatter about how much the work at St. Mary’s meant to him, and Father Molnar, who’d depleted his life savings by half in order to come up with the twenty-five dollars for his own dinner ticket, had expressed delight. He’d lain awake most of the night thinking what a delusion it had been to believe that two years away could do anything, that he could be strong enough to come back to D.C., or that he had come back for any other reason
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