Dad opens his truck door. “I don’t like the idea that anyone can get inside that church, not in its condition.” He pulls out a dagger and straps it to his ankle beneath his cammo cargos. “The innkeeper says it’s in shambles. Something could fall on you. You could step on a nail or fall on something sharp—get tetanus.” He locks his truck door and starts up the road. “Come on. I was headed up to the caretaker when you showed up. I want him to know you’re my daughter and not part of some caravan. Sacrilege, whatever they do in there, in a house of God.”
Like he’s suddenly found religion.
He climbs the hill, and I follow, my limbs protesting with every step.
“It’s just a building,” I call after him. “Mom says a church is the people, not the place.”