Patience steps off the bus in Sacramento as if arriving in a new world. And in a way, she is. She has learned—slowly as always—during her Wandering Years that each city is it’s own island, often wholly removed from outside influence. At least for the Damned.

It is as the Lord intended. Or so she’s come to believe. Why else would it be so, if God had not willed it thus? And who is Patience to question the Will of God?

No one, that’s who.

The night ride from San Francisco had been uneventful. Largely because her fellow passengers, the few Kine making the trip at such a late hour, had given her a wide berth. Even the cattle possess some small measure of wisdom.

And they avoid her still. Waiting for their bags, clustered together in a nervous knot while she stands alone doing the same. The driver pulls her large duffle from under the bus last. Everyone else has gone on. He tosses it at Patience’s feet without looking at her. But she’s watching him, her eyes never leave him as she stoops to heft the bag.

Patience is hungry. But that will have to wait. First, prayer. Shouldering the duffle, she turns on her heel and enters the station. Deserted save for the security guard. He is fat and old and does not carry a gun. No agent at the desk, departures having ceased until morning. The guard’s stupid eyes follow her as she passes him.

She finds the bathroom. Closes the door, locks it. Drops the duffle and sinks to her knees beside the dirty toilet. Piss stink and filth in the corners. Hands clasped before her, Patience raises unblinking eyes to stare at the ceiling. As if it’s not there. As if she can see right through to the sky. And beyond, to His face: mouth set in a tight line, eyes flashing with righteous anger. Just like hers.

Patience would like to say the words out loud. But the door is too thin. He will hear nonetheless. For a long time she just kneels, letting her mind clear. And then:

Lord, hear my prayer. Thank you for delivering me to this place. Thank you for guarding me on my journey, though I do not deserve your protection.

Someone tries the door handle. Once. Twice. Murmuring outside, a quiet knock.

Help me to act in accordance with your will—to be a scourge to the Living and to spread the Dark Prophet’s words among the Damned.

Now a voice. The security guard, she’s sure of it: “Ma’am, hurry up in there. Closing for the night.” Patience ignores him.

Help me to find others of the Dark Faith in this place.

“Ma’am,” more knocking. “You better not be shooting up in there.”

Give me the strength to show them my hands and to tell them—‘These are my hands that were made to Serve.’ Give me the strength to perform that Service.

Now comes the sound of keys being extracted from the guard’s pocket. Metal chiming on metal.

Amen.

Her prayer finished, Patience rises. She had not asked for sustenance. But the Lord provides, if it is His Will. And tonight, he has provided.

Patience opens the door.