A shadow fell over her as her ‘son’ covered for her, but Anita was focused.

She did frown when her dear son started clearing glass.

“Honey, I have a stick,” she admonished, though gently. “Here.”

She slammed it into the pane, rushing now to keep her holy son from poking around. It probably would have helped if she’d waited for him to move, but. But. Did he know how amazing it felt to hit things this drunk?

Anita let out a satisfied, low hum as she smashed, forgetting her original impulse to protect him.

“Don’t lie,” Anita said in between smashes … “Father Benjamin Ward.”

The woman looked between them, furrowing her brow (though whether it was in confusion or against the bright, bright sun? Their guess was as good as any).

“I do,” Anita said, chucking the stick aside. “Help me up, son.”