Every year, Samira Crawford, her husband Mark, and their four children went on a search for Christmas lights. They didn’t go to the big displays of lights with paid entry and photo ops. Instead, they drove through nearby neighborhoods. This year, the lights were particularly pretty, glinting off the fresh pure-white snow. They’d only been driving for about ten minutes when Samira’s phone rang.

Immediately, Samira’s eyes went to the screen. It was the bishop. One of the Christmas baskets must have gotten lost or was missing something for a family in need.

As she picked up the phone, Bilal yelled from the back seat, “Mom, you said you wouldn’t use your phone!”

“Sorry, I’ll be fast.” Ever since she’d been called as the Relief Society president, Samira felt like it was a privilege to serve, though sometimes service opportunities didn’t come at the most convenient moments.

Samira pressed the green button. “Hi, Bishop.”

“Sister Crawford, thanks for taking my call.” He spoke slowly, and his voice sounded heavy, tired. This must not be about the Christmas baskets.

“Oooh, look at that snowman balloon!” said Lucy.

“And the reindeer lights!” said Ellie.

“Kids, be quiet, mom’s on the phone,” said Mark. Their kids quieted.

“What’s wrong, Bishop?” asked Samira.

“It’s about the Woodlings.”

A sudden dread filled Samira’s stomach. “Oh no.” The Woodling family had been beset by tragedy, trials that no family should ever have to bear. Their two oldest children had both died in accidents, one at the age of seven, the other at the age of six. Since then, Sister Veronica Woodling had been extremely protective of their youngest child, Olivia.

A few months ago, Veronica Woodling had broken down while teaching a Relief Society lesson about eternal families. In retrospect, it might not have been the best topic for Samira to assign to Veronica, but it had felt right at the time. After the lesson, Samira had taken Veronica aside to a small room that had mysteriously lost all its normal-size chairs. As they sat on the little beige plastic chairs meant for five-year-olds, Samira had attempted to mourn with those that mourn, and comfort those that stand in need of comfort.

“What’s wrong?” asked Samira.

“I don’t want to lose Olivia too,” said Veronica.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m going to lose Olivia too,” sobbed Veronica. “Something will happen, and I will lose her.”

“Nothing will happen to Olivia.” Yet though Samira told Veronica repeatedly that Olivia would be fine, she could not talk any sense into her, so instead she sat with Veronica until all of Veronica’s tears were spent and she was ready to go home.

Now, on the phone call, the Bishop was silent. Samira said a fervent prayer in her heart. Please, God, please don’t have let anything have happened to Olivia. Please, anything but that.

“There’s been an accident,” said the Bishop.

“Olivia?”

“Yes, she died.”

“Oh no, oh no.” Despite having guessed, she almost choked on her sudden tears. “What happened to her?”

“She was taking a bath while listening to a music player, but it was plugged into the wall and she was electrocuted.”

Samira felt bile rise in her throat. She did not even know what to say, it was too horrifying.

Her own children were fighting, but she couldn’t even process what they were fighting about.

The Woodling’s eldest child had climbed the fence to the neighbor’s yard and drowned in their swimming pool. Their second child had accidentally eaten rat poison in the attic. And now this.

Now this.

It was two days before Christmas, and a week and a half before Olivia was to be baptized. How would the Woodlings possibly get through this holiday season? How could God allow such a horrible series of events to happen to a single family?

“Thanks for letting me know, Bishop. I will make sure the Relief Society does all that we can.”

“Thank you, Sister Crawford.”

“Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas.”

The bishop hung up the phone.

“Dad, turn right!” yelled one of Samira’s daughters, Zara.

“No, turn left!” said Bilal.

“I want to see the snowflake lights,” said Ellie.

“But I want to see that big house,” said Lucy.

Instead, Mark drove straight, and all four children erupted into screams.

Ellie, who was nine, punched Bilal, who was seven. Bilal was just a few months younger than Olivia, Olivia who was now gone.

“Stop the car,” said Samira.

She opened the door and stumbled out onto the snowy, slushy road. As she closed the door, she could hear Mark lecturing the kids on their behavior.

Samira trudged up the road. She was dressed for a drive in the cold, not for a walk in the cold, but that did not deter her. She walked until the snow had soaked through her shoes and her nose stung. Then she turned back to the car. Her walk might have been five minutes long, it might have been ten. It might even have been fifteen. She didn’t know.

Inside the van, all of her children were being quiet and perfectly behaved.

“What’s wrong?” asked Mark.

“Olivia Woodling died this morning,” said Samira.

They drove home in complete silence, no one talking about the Christmas lights. With only two days until Christmas, they had planned out family activities for the entire evening.

But sometimes, the burdens of others could not wait.

*****

Samira drove the twenty minutes to the Woodling’s house, and then stood outside in the cold. She had not been the Relief Society president for the last two Woodling deaths, but she knew what she needed to do. Meals. Funeral arrangements. People to spend time with them. Lots and lots of prayers.

In her hand she carried a box of store-bought Christmas cookies, and a Ziplock bag holding homemade khobz mzaweq—decorated bread with crossed lines and seeds on the top. Whenever she could bring one of her mom’s Moroccan recipes to anything, she did. But now, as she found herself unable to ring the doorbell, she considered putting the food back in the van.

Loss and despair: these were not open pits that you could fill if you only threw in enough food. It was like going up to someone, shoving food into their hands, and saying, “Here, you’ve suffered unspeakable tragedy. Eat some carbs.”

But she didn’t know what else to do, so she rang the doorbell.

Please, dear God, please let me know the right things to say and the right things to do.

After a minute, Brother Woodling answered. He looked like he’d aged thirty years in one day, like he’d been broken so many times that he could not possibly be put back together again. Humpty Dumpty in human form.

Samira swallowed. There was no way for her to help the Woodlings, not really. She forced the food into Brother Woodling’s hands and asked, “Can I see Veronica? I know it’s not a good time, but I thought that maybe a short visit…”

Brother Woodling nodded and gestured for her to come inside.

Inside the house, she took off her boots. She stood just a few feet away from the Christmas tree, which was not plugged in. Underneath it were piles of presents. From the labels, written in black permanent marker, it appeared that Olivia had more presents than all four of Samira’s children combined. Presents that would never be opened.

Brother Woodling gestured for her to follow him up the stairs. As she did, she felt unaccountably nervous. He was an enthusiastic young men’s leader, and she’d heard that he showed up to help every single time anyone moved in or out of the ward, but she had never really liked him. Sometimes in Sunday School, his remarks came off as condescending to women, and he had once said something pretty racist to Samira. It was probably unintentional, but it still stung when she remembered it.

He led her to the master bedroom. Veronica was wearing her pajamas. She sat not on the unmade bed, but on the floor, leaning her back against the wall. The skin under her eyes was smeared with mascara.

As Brother Woodling left the room, Samira sat down beside Veronica on the floor. “Veronica, I’m so sorry.”

Veronica sniffed.

Samira sat with Veronica in silence.

At baptism, she had covenanted to mourn with those that mourn, and to comfort those that stand in need of comfort. Veronica would need comfort eventually. But right now she just needed the space to mourn.

She placed her hand on Veronica’s shoulder. Veronica began to cry, and for several minutes Samira cried with her.

“You must be in unimaginable pain,” said Samira.

Veronica nodded, and then covered her face with her hands.

Samira wondered who had discovered the body. Did Veronica find Olivia, or was it Brother Woodling? How did they know to look for her? When someone was electrocuted, did it make the lights flash in the rest of the house? Was there a weird buzzing noise, like in the movies?

She pushed down her morbid curiosity. These were not questions that a Relief Society president should even be thinking about. Please, God, please help me to have the Spirit. Help me to know what to say, and what to do.

And then something came to her.

“You must have been looking forward to Olivia’s birthday next week. And her baptism.”

“Yes. All of our family was coming to town for it.” She was silent for a moment. “Can you change the reservation on the building? From baptism to funeral. With everyone coming, it makes sense to do it then.”

“I will take care of it,” said Samira. And then, she had another thought of what to say, related to the first. It was not the most sensitive comment, but she was pretty sure it was a prompting, so she said it anyway. “Not a single one of your children was baptized.”

“They all died before they were accountable.” Veronica seemed to straighten a little. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve, getting mascara on her sweater. “Someone else will raise her, and Danny, and Robert, in the Millennium. Someone who is a much better mother than I.”

Doctrinally this seemed a little off. Samira couldn’t remember when or where she had learned about this principle, but she was pretty sure that the idea was you’d be able to raise your own children to maturity in the Millennium.

“Your children will want you to raise them.”

Veronica shook her head, and then tugged a little at a Band-Aid on the palm of her hand. “No. They won’t. I’m a terrible mother.”

It was common to feel guilt after there was an accident, to think that if you had done something different, you might have been able to prevent it.

“You’re not a bad mother, Veronica. There’s nothing you could’ve done.”

Veronica began to cry again. “I want you to leave.”

Samira stood. She probably shouldn’t have said what she had said. She was supposed to lift Veronica’s burdens, not make them feel heavier. “I’m sorry. Sorry for everything.” She walked to the bedroom door and looked back at Veronica. “Do you mind if I use the bathroom?”

“That’s fine,” said Veronica.

Despite having a mom-bladder which had been compromised by giving birth to four children, Samira could probably wait to use the bathroom until she got home. But she needed space to think. The bathroom down the hall had police tape on it, so she decided to use the one downstairs.

After, as she washed her hands, she thought back to her conversation with Veronica a few months before, and to Veronica’s absolute certainly that something would happen to Olivia. How could she have known?

Each of the Woodling children had died in uncommon accidents before the age of eight. It almost seemed suspicious. Samira pushed that thought aside. There couldn’t be anything suspicious about it, or the police or coroner or whoever was in charge of these sorts of matters would’ve noticed it.

Sometimes, Samira had a problem with judging others. It was something she’d been consciously trying to improve at for the last few years, but it was difficult. Some people felt comfortable watching certain movies, and other people did not. People felt the Holy Spirit confirm their choice of voting Republican or Democrat. They kept the Sabbath day holy in very different ways, and felt closer to God as a result. Samira had begun to accept that the Lord truly did work in mysterious ways, and it was not her place to judge.

And here she was, not only judging, but leaping to terrible conclusions.

She left the bathroom. In the same hall was a small office. From the decorations, she couldn’t tell if it was Veronica’s office or Brother Woodling’s. Maybe they shared it. The desk inside was covered with receipts, and something about them piqued her curiosity. She saw no sign of either Woodling—Veronica was upstairs, and Brother Woodling was somewhere else in the house—so she stepped inside the room.

Feeling rather self-conscious, Samira put on the thin, liner gloves she kept in her pocket and examined the receipts. The Woodlings had purchased board games and children’s clothing and books and electronics. Clearly, the Woodlings had a much larger Christmas budget than Samira and her husband.

The receipts appeared to be organized by store, and the return policies on the backs of the receipts were circled. What a strange thing to do on the day your child died—to figure out how to return all her Christmas presents. But people mourned in all manner of ways. And returning the presents was better than keeping them.

She felt a little guilt, but she felt driven to keep looking at the receipts. Probably not by the Spirit, given that she was snooping in someone else’s house.

As she continued to examine the receipts, she noticed some irregularities. Three copies of the same board game had been purchased. Why would one child need three of the same board game? Maybe the store had logged it wrong, or two of them were gifts for other families. Another receipt listed two of the same video game.

Samira stopped on the last receipt. It was an MP3 player. Purchased yesterday.

Olivia had been electrocuted by using a charging MP3 player in the bathtub. Could it be this MP3 player, bought yesterday?

Surely it couldn’t be. And even if it was, it didn’t mean anything.

Samira carefully put the receipts back as they had been, removed her gloves, and left the office. Please, God, help my thoughts to be clear. Help me to not say or do anything stupid.

She was the Relief Society president and a stay-at-home mom, not an investigator on a crime show. Yet she felt like she should stay.

She made sure that her pepper spray was at the top of her purse, and then she found Brother Woodling at the kitchen table. He had eaten half of the Christmas cookies but hadn’t touched the khobz mzaweq. Breakfast dishes and cereal were still on the table. He probably hadn’t eaten any real food all day long. Meals for the Woodlings would need to start tomorrow. Maybe even two meals, to make sure they ate both lunch and dinner.

“Brother Woodling, can I talk with you?”

He nodded.

Samira sat across from him at the table.

She didn’t know what to say, or how, so she jumped straight to the subject. “Bishop told me how Olivia died.”

He didn’t reply.

“I know this may seem terribly insensitive, but was it a new MP3 player? Did she know the right way to use it?”

“She’d had it for a year or two,” he said quietly. “She knew how to use it. She knew not to plug things in near water.” His voice raised near the end, his fist tightening.

“I’m sorry.”

They sat in silence, the long, empty silence of broken things and people. Despite the imperfect ways in which he had treated others, and herself, she could not help but feel compassion for him. He might not be perfect, but he was a child of God. He was more than his follies—just as, hopefully, Samira was more than her own.

She gestured at the khobz mzaweq. “If you like everything bagels, you’ll probably like the bread.”

Brother Woodling pulled it out of the bag and broke off a piece, then passed it to Samira, who broke off her own portion. They both bit into the bread.

“It’s good,” he said, and then he took another bite. “Can I get you water?”

“Yes, thank you.”

He poured them both cups of water from a jug in the refrigerator, and they both drank.

He took another bite of the bread, then set down the rest of his piece. “Olivia’s MP3 player broke a few months ago. And we hadn’t bought her a new one.” He paused. “I remember throwing it away. But then how did she have it?”

His surprise seemed genuine. Brother Woodling might not be her favorite person in the ward, but she didn’t think he had murdered his own child.

Why was she even thinking about such a dreadful possibility? God, please help me think clearly and not come to false conclusions.

“I’m sure that Veronica bought a replacement and forgot to tell you.”

He nodded. “Probably.”

A replacement—bought only yesterday. A replacement, which was not saved for Christmas.

Images came to Samira’s mind. Veronica, buying an MP3 player. Helping Olivia into the bath. And then, when Olivia wasn’t looking, plugging the MP3 player into the wall and dropping it into the bathtub.

A chill went down Samira’s spine, but she could not speak her suspicions to Brother Woodling—she could not accuse his wife of such a deed. Surely Samira was wrong—surely no mother could do such a thing to her child. She needed to stop these thoughts, go home, and mourn for the Woodlings in private.

“I need to say bye to Veronica before I leave,” Samira told Brother Woodling. He nodded.

As Samira climbed the stairs, she clutched the pepper spray in her purse. Not that she needed pepper spray, not with Veronica, who would never hurt anyone.

Veronica was still sitting against the wall in the master bedroom. Everything about her spoke of pain and anguish. How could Samira have possibly suspected her of harming her own child?

“Why are you still here?” asked Veronica.

“I—uh—just—was making sure your husband ate something.” It was not a very convincing excuse. Veronica had already asked her to leave—Samira shouldn’t have come up to talk to her again at all. “Also, I wanted to tell you that I’ll have people drop by lunch and dinner tomorrow. Would noon and five-thirty work for you?”

“Yes, that’s—”

Veronica’s phone vibrated and lit up. From this angle, Samira could not read the words.

“My mother,” she said angrily.

“What’s wrong?”

“She’s just—” Her jaw seemed to clench. “She’s the worst person to talk to in a crisis.”

“I know people like that too. I’m sure she means well.”

Veronica shrugged. “Maybe.” And then her hands balled. “I made some…mistakes when I was a teenager. Sins. Pretty big ones. And you know what my mom told me? She told me I was ruining her celestial family. She didn’t care about me. Just that I was breaking her perfect plan. Now she’s trying to fit this, my daughter’s death, into her plan.”

“I’m sorry,” said Samira. She didn’t know what else to say.

Veronica scratched at the edge of the Band-Aid on her palm, and then she looked straight at Samira. Veronica’s face…it looked wild, like she might attack at any moment.

“You should talk to someone,” said Samira. A chill ran down her spine. “The bishop, someone in the Relief Society, a therapist. I have a really good therapist—she’s super nice, very professional. I can give you her number.”

“I don’t need to talk to anyone.” Her words were sharp, but it seemed as if the effort of saying the words depleted her. The wild look disappeared, and she curled up, putting her head on her knees.

After a minute of watching Veronica, unsure of what, if anything, to do, Samira said. “Goodnight, Veronica.”

Veronica did not reply.

“Call me if you need anything. Any time. Day or night.”

Still, Veronica did not reply.

Samira left the room and walked down the hallway, feeling useless. She hadn’t managed to help Veronica at all.

She made it to the stairs and then stopped. Something was not right, she knew something was not right, and she could not ignore it. She turned to look at the bathroom with the police tape. For a reason she could not articulate, she felt like she needed to see it for herself. Though neither Veronica nor Brother Woodling were watching her, her spine prickled as she pulled on her gloves, reached her hand between the layers of police tape, and twisted open the door handle. She was seized by a sudden cold; maybe this was the Spirit warning her to stop, to not do this. But maybe…maybe it was just fear.

There was a gap beneath the police tape, and Samira ducked under it, into the bathroom, then switched on the light. There was nothing to see… no water in the tub, no blood, no anything. What did she think she would see that the police had not? Clearly, if anything were amiss, they would have noted it.

The outlet was not close to the tub—it was probably about five feet. Of course, Samira owned plenty of eight-foot charging cords. That wasn’t unusual at all. The cord, of course, was not there, and neither was the MP3 player. They’d probably been removed by the police.

There was a bump down the hall, and Samira started. What would she do if she was caught? She had absolutely no justification for crossing police tape—police tape—and entering a crime scene. She dashed back to the door, but as she did so, she noted that the trash can was empty, except for one of those see-through liner bags. She turned off the light, slipped under the police tape, and closed the door.

Panting a little, Samira descended the stairs. The bathroom trash was empty, not a tissue, not a toilet paper roll, nothing at all. The bathroom downstairs had been about half full, with at least seven or eight empty toilet paper rolls. Clearly, the Woodlings did not take out their bathroom trash unless it was fuller than that. So either the trash had filled enough for them to remove it, or it had contained something that needed to be removed so no one would see it.

Upon reaching the bottom of the stairs, Samira almost ran directly into Brother Woodling.

“I thought you were going,” he said.

“Uh, yes, I was,” she said quickly. “I’m just trying to figure out what more I can do to help.” Then, she was hit by sudden inspiration. “I was wondering if I could take out the trash as I’m leaving. From the downstairs bathroom and the kitchen.”

“Sure, thanks,” said Brother Woodling, but he sounded uncertain.

Without waiting for him to change his mind, Samira gathered the trash and exited the front door. Now she was the one behaving strangely, but she had to know the truth. She had to be sure.

The trash can was tucked around the side of the garage, and the walk to it had not been shoveled. There were footprints covered by a fresh layer of snow—footprints about the size of Samira’s own. After walking around the remnants of the footprints and filling her own shoes with snow in the process, Samira opened the trash can. She set the two bags of trash in her hands down in the snow. The lights on the front of the house didn’t quite reach this spot, so she removed her cell phone and shone the flashlight into the trashcan. She saw only a large kitchen bag of trash, no small translucent bag. But a murderer wouldn’t just throw something in the trash; a murderer would hide it.

Trying to ignore the smell, a mix of rotting oranges and who knows what else, Samira reached in and pulled out the kitchen trash.

Beneath it was a smaller trash bag. A bathroom trash bag.

She pulled it out and tried to undo the tie while still holding her phone in one hand. There was a noise—maybe the front door, please, not the front door—but she kept working at the ties, finally getting them free.

Inside the trash bag was the case for an MP3 player. The plastic looked like it had been ripped by hand, torn open in a rush, leaving a jagged, rather sharp looking edge. Along the edge there was a faint trace of something that appeared to be dried blood.

“What are you doing?”

Samira looked up to see Veronica standing in front of her. Samira swallowed. If she was right, this woman was a murderer. Not just once, but three times. What would stop her from harming one more person?

“I said, what are you doing?” Veronica’s voice was frantic.

“I told your husband I could take out your trash.”

“It doesn’t look like you’re taking out the trash.”

Samira transferred her cell phone to the same hand as the trash bag and began to reach for the pepper spray in her purse.

“Don’t move,” said Veronica. “Don’t you dare move.”

Samira breathed in and out, creating a small white cloud in the cold air. She did not know what Veronica could do to her, and desperate people did desperate things. Samira said a quiet prayer. Please, God, please help me.

The flashlight from her cell phone illuminated the Band-Aid on Veronica’s hand.

“You killed Olivia,” said Samira quietly.

“No. No—I didn’t kill her. I would never hurt my children—my dear children.”

“You bought an MP3 player yesterday. The receipt is in your office. And this is the plastic it was in, from the store. You ripped it open, so fast that it cut your hand. That’s why you have a Band-Aid. Then you plugged it in the wall and dropped it into the bathtub. You killed Olivia.”

There was another sound, but Samira did not turn for it. She kept her eyes fixed on Veronica’s face. “How do you know what I did?” Veronica’s voice shook.

“You remember how the Spirit led Nephi to know that the chief judge had been killed by his brother? That’s kind of what just happened.”

Veronica closed her eyes. Her entire body seemed to shake, but then she stilled and opened her eyes. “Olivia was a perfect child. Not like my other children. Olivia was truly good—always kind, always thoughtful, always doing the right thing. I thought that it might be okay if she turned eight. She would keep doing the right things. But then I became afraid. Afraid that she wouldn’t. Because everyone sins. I almost waited too long, but her birthday was next week, and I couldn’t wait any longer.”

“So you killed her?” Samira tried to keep the horror out of her voice.

“Now she won’t ever be able to make any mistakes. She’ll be saved in the celestial kingdom, and that’s what matters. All of my children will.”

“That sounds like Satan’s plan to me—to make sure we’re all saved. This life is about learning and growing.”

“No, it’s about getting a body. And I gave each of my children a physical body.” Veronica began to plead with Samira. “Now they can’t fail. Now they can’t fall, like I have.”

“But that’s what the Atonement is for. It can heal all wounds, fix all problems.”

“I’ve repented. But I’ve never felt fixed. And I didn’t want to ever feel about my children the way that my mom felt about me. I love them too much.”

That wasn’t love, or at least, it wasn’t a fulness of love. Love was letting people make their own choices, trusting that when they fell and made mistakes, they would feel the fulness of the Savior’s love. Real love was giving people choice and opportunity and growth. Even if sometimes they left, and never came back.

“I will be damned for what I’ve done,” said Veronica. “I know I will. But I’m willing to be damned if it guarantees that my children will be saved.”

Things must have become so twisted up in Veronica’s mind, for her to kill her own children. Why couldn’t God have stopped her? Or why couldn’t God have led someone to realize what Veronica had done after killing her first child, or her second? What sort of God would allow all of this?

It was enough to make Samira doubt the Lord’s plan.

Samira shook her head. The Lord worked in mysterious ways, and suffering was universal. But the Savior had died for everyone, he had bled even for Veronica. He loved Veronica, even Veronica, enough to let her keep her agency.

“You shouldn’t have killed them,” said Samira. “And you knew that you shouldn’t have.”

Veronica lunged for Samira, knocking her backwards into the snow.

Samira tried to push her off, tried to reach for the pepper spray. Suddenly, Brother Woodling was there, pulling Veronica off of her. He must have followed Veronica out of the house and listened to their conversation.

“How could you?” Brother Woodling said, shaking his wife. “How could you?”

Veronica tried to pull away, but her husband kept shaking her.

Samira managed to stand up and find her pepper spray. She held it out toward the Woodlings. “Stop! Don’t hurt her.”

He pushed his wife to the ground. She lay in the snow, crying.

“If you try to hurt her, I will use this pepper spray on you.”

“She killed our kids.”

Samira stepped forward and pointed the pepper spray at his face. “We will get your children justice, but I’m not going to let you be the one to carry it out. That’s not your job. I’m going to call the cops.” She glanced at Veronica, and knew suddenly that she might try to run. “I need you to take Veronica inside. Sit down, and make sure she doesn’t leave. And make sure she doesn’t hurt herself. And you better not hurt her either, or I will use this on you. Understood?”

The moment seemed to stretch longer and longer, but finally, Brother Woodling spoke. “I understand.”

Veronica tried to crawl away from him, but he pulled her to her feet—more gently, now. She gave in, and, resigned, walked with him into the house.

“I’ll be right in,” said Samira. She found her phone where it had fallen in the snow and dried it as well as she could. Amazingly, it still worked. A little miracle, she supposed.

It looked like her kids had taken her husband’s phone again, because they had sent her a selfie of themselves under the Christmas tree. All four kids were scowling at the camera. One of the kids had texted the words, Dad says we have to wait until tomorrow to act out the Jesus story.

Samira put her phone up against her heart, and her body began to shake. How could she go home, after this? How could she tell her children what had really happened to Olivia, and to Olivia’s older brothers? She felt like she held a dam inside, and the dam was cracking, about to burst and overwhelm her with emotions. She had to keep it closed, for a little longer, and then she’d have to find some way to clean up the mess, not just for herself, but for all the other people she loved. News of what had happened would break the ward, and not just the ward, the whole community. There would be a trial, and Samira knew she would have to attend. And someone needed to take Brother Woodling in for Christmas, and she needed to call the bishop, and then she had to figure out—

Breathe. Just breathe.

She stood a little straighter and typed 9-1-1 into her phone. After talking to the operator, she texted her husband. It’s going to be a long night. Put the kids to bed? Thanks. Then she joined Brother Woodling and Veronica inside the house. They sat near the unlit Christmas tree until they heard the sound of sirens and saw the flashing red lights.

 

Katherine Cowley

 

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