"George Hodgson: One summer when I was seven, my parents sent me to live with two aunts in Oxfordshire. I did not want to go. The elderly have that effect on children. But they loved me. And I grew to love them. They were papists I came to find. Devout. Each Sunday they would leave me with a housemaid while they attended a Catholic Mass. I was frightened for them. I had been told they were doing some great, unforgivable thing. Then one morning, they took me with them. I was shaking. The service was not the howling spectacle of sin I had imagined, but was beautiful. The singing sounded delivered by angels themselves. When it came time for the Eucharist, I found myself moved to step forward. My aunts were surprised, but pleased, I could see. I took the wafer on my tongue. Drank from the chalice. I felt clean. With the body and blood of Christ within me I felt forgiven of every poor weak or selfish thing within my soul. It was a perfect moment in a whole imperfect life. The next week when it came time to dress, I, I pretended to be ill. They knew I was pretending. To this day, I don't know why I did it. They never asked me to join them again. We never spoke of it. It was the last and only time I stepped into a papist church. But tonight when I close my eyes I'm there. If I were a braver man, I would kill Mr. Hickey. Though it would mean my death, too. But I am hungry. I am hungry and I want to live."