The old man asks how long the admission process takes.
Father Mateo looks up from the hymnal. The man’s voice is thin but steady, like a clerk asking about postage. He is bent over a cane, his skin drawn tight, his eyes washed pale as if the color has already left them.
“For what?” Mateo asks.
“Your religion.” The old man’s tone is matter-of-fact. “From application to acceptance.”
Mateo sets the book down. “There isn’t a process. You accept Christ as Lord and Savior. That is enough.”
The man tilts his head, thoughtful. “How long does that take? A few minutes?”
The priest feels his jaw tighten. “It takes as long as it takes you to mean it.”
The old man smiles faintly. “That’s quicker than Judaism. They had me filling out a prenup.”
Mateo blinks. “A what?”
“A prenup. Legalistic. I signed, but my daughter said it wouldn’t hold up.” He chuckles without warmth. “Before that, Islam gave me nondisclosure agreements.”
Mateo stares at him. He can’t tell if it’s a joke. The old man’s hands don’t shake, but his voice does.
“We don’t do paperwork,” Mateo says carefully. “Faith isn’t a contract.”
“Everything’s a contract,” the man mutters. He looks down at his cane. “I’m running out of time. Doctors say it could be months, but I’d rather choose the day. If I can book the best afterlife in advance, why wouldn’t I?”
The priest’s throat dries. “That isn’t how it works.”
The man’s eyes sharpen. “Then tell me exactly how it does. Technical details, Father. Is there a witness? A signature? I don’t want to miss a requirement.”
Mateo spreads his hands. “No forms. You say it. You believe it. That’s all.”
The silence after that stretches thin. The old man leans forward, breath rattling, and speaks in a flat, steady tone:
“I accept Jesus as Lord and Savior.”
Mateo crosses himself without thinking. The words have the weight of a legal oath, not a prayer. He murmurs a blessing in reply, but the man is already reaching for his coat.
At the door, Mateo hesitates, then follows him outside.
The air smells of exhaust and frying oil from the corner store. Traffic rolls past. The old man shuffles down the path, pauses at a roadside shrine tucked between a lamppost and a fence: a small glass box holding a Buddha, silk flowers gone sun-bleached, pamphlets curled by weather.
He bends slowly, takes one, and begins to read.
“You said it,” Mateo calls after him.
The old man glances up. His lips twitch as though he almost forgot. “Yes. Very efficient.”
Mateo steps closer. “Does it… give you peace?”
The man studies the pamphlet’s back page, lips moving silently. He folds it once, neat as a receipt, and slides it into his coat pocket. “Peace isn’t the point. Guarantees are.”
“There are none,” Mateo says. His voice sounds strange to his own ears, like someone else speaking.
The old man’s expression flickers—mischief, or defiance, or just fatigue. “Then I’ll keep shopping. No harm in comparing terms.”
He straightens, cane tucked under one arm, and walks toward the road.
Mateo watches him shrink against the traffic, pamphlet hidden away, his steps deliberate as if he is measuring the distance to some unseen door. He opens his mouth to call again but no words come.