Safe Harbors Catholic Church was a beautiful place, thought Father Christopher Monk from where he lay on the steps in front of his podium.
The same podium where he would preach every mass, his Lord’s book on the dais before him, looking over the children his Father had sent to him for guidance.
Stained glass windows spilling sunlight, tinted in vibrant colors, through the room. Gorgeous reds, blues and greens were cast across His bible and onto the faces of His devout.
Oh, God, his beloved congregation, the twenty-seven people who came every Sunday at the crack of dawn to worship.
The same twenty-seven faces every week, smiling as they came up for communion. Their voices mingling in prayer or hymn, echoing around the chamber. Father Monk's family, His children.
Not that Father Monk ever turned away a new face, no, he actively welcomed the new members of his flock.
Which is why he had said nothing as five boys in red coats—much too bright to be safe to wear down this street—shuffled into the farthest pew.
Though his church was deep in Sons of Liberty territory, Safe Harbors had always been just that—a safe place.
Too many of the gang boys’ mothers, girls, and girls’ mothers came here for anyone to bring violence into the white hall.
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