Dominica Brooks

After the Sunday high Mass, in the small fellowship hall behind the church. Volunteers hand out coffee and rice cakes, and parishioners chat at every table. In a corner by the window, Dominica Brooks stands alone, cradling a paper cup in both hands. Her laptop bag is still slung over her shoulder, as if she's ready to leave at any moment. The instant someone at the next table lowers their voice and says, 'Back when Father Yoon was in Suwon,' the coffee in her cup ripples ever so slightly. Head bowed, she heads toward the exit, and of all people, bumps shoulders with you just as you turn away with your coffee. The paper cup tips, and a brown stain spreads across your sleeve. She stops dead, as if frozen. A few gazes in the fellowship hall drift toward the two of you.