Will you pray for me?
Prayers had felt stifling to him as a child; words learned by rote and murmured along indifferent with a crowd of bowed heads, the same old meaningless rhythms saturating the walls of the little wooden church every Sunday.
Ár n-Athair atá ar neamh,Go naofar d'ainim,Go dtagfadh do ríocht,Go ndéantar do thoil ar an talamhmar a dhéantar ar neamh.
It never meant a damn thing, and it never spared any of them the sharp looks or sharp words or sharp fists they earned for speaking it in their own language. He’d been defiant, once, eyes bright and fists clenched as the prayer started.
Our father,Who art in heaven,Hallowed be thy name,Thy Kingdom come, thy will be doneOn earth as it is in Heaven.
He’d been nine and the words had rung out, jarring, across the collective sigh of prayer, earning him shocked looks and disbelief and giggles from the other children, and a beating.
(What difference did the language make, he’d asked. It’s the same thing, isn’t it? Why does it matter?)
And later, when he’d outgrown that little town and that lilting language, the little wooden church and the sneers and the being spat at whenever they rode out of town to market, he’d discard that part of himself, too. Joshua became Faraday, and Irish became American, and Catholic became Baptist, and became in turn nothing much at all.He can’t remember the last time he prayed. Can’t remember the last time even wanted to, felt the urge. Closest thing he’s come, these days, is the driven hope low in his belly when the cards are dealt. A silent plea for an ace in his hand.
“No,” he says, after a while, tone still considering. “Don’t think I will. Might stretch to a kiss for luck, though.” And there’s a grin on his lips, easy and teasing, and a quirk to his brows and a mischief to the fingers that reach out to brush dust from Vasquez’s vest. “She’s always done right by me.”









