The Chosen by Sharon Sala

out to a helper who was standing on the street below.
    â€œYou know what makes me tired?” Mother Mary T. asked.
    â€œWhat?” January replied, as she screwed the shade to the lamp base.
    â€œPeople that donate dirty things to the poor…as if they’re not good enough to warrant a wash and tumble dry before giving the stuff away. Just look at those sheets. Dirty. Stained. Some of them in rags. If it was me, I’d be ashamed.” Then she sighed. “However, it is my lot in life to make sure God’s lambs are not shamed. Therefore, my fellow sisters and I will be washing away other people’s filth before dispensing these very generous gifts.”
    January grinned. “You know, Mother Mary T., you’re one of the few people I know who can be truly sarcastic with a straight face.”
    The little nun sighed. “It wasn’t very godly of me, was it?”
    January lost the smile.
    â€œOn the contrary. You’re one of the most godly people I know.”
    Mother Mary T. fidgeted at the unexpected praise, then took the lamp out of January’s hands and pointed to a couple of broken-down recliners.
    â€œHave a seat, girl. I’ve a mind to take a breather, and I don’t want to be looking up at you while we talk.”
    January sat, and Mother Mary Theresa sat next to her.
    â€œSo what’s on your mind? I know you well enough to know this isn’t a social visit.”
    January leaned forward with her elbows resting on her knees. Subconsciously, she lowered her voice, unwilling for anyone else to hear what she was going to say.
    â€œHave you ever heard of a street preacher who calls himself the Sinner?”
    Mother Mary T. frowned. “Sinner. Hmm, yes, that sounds familiar, but I’ve never met him. Why?”
    January hesitated, then spoke.
    â€œDuring the past few months, I’ve been hearing talk that some men—men from the shelters and the streets—have disappeared. Have you heard anything like that?”
    The little nun crossed herself before speaking and, like January, lowered her voice.
    â€œI hear all manner of things,” she said. “Most of it the devil’s work.” Then she added, “But, to answer your question, yes. Some of the regulars here at the shelter talk about people having gone missing. Why?”
    â€œI have a theory that may or may not tie it all together.”
    â€œTie what together, girl?”
    â€œThe preacher and the missing men.”
    Mother Mary T. threw up her hands. “Saints above, January. You can’t possibly take any of that seriously? The homeless are already missing when they come here from somewhere else. Often, they leave as anonymously as they came. Besides that, none of them are in good health. I can’t bear to think of how many die alone in sewers and abandoned buildings and are never found.”
    â€œI know, but—”
    â€œBut nothing. If you want to do a story on something, focus on the fact that we’re short of money. We need donations for the upcoming winter. Coats, blankets, food…you name it.”
    January sighed. “I will. I promise I will, but humor me on this, will you?”
    â€œYou promise you’ll do it in advance of the cold weather?”
    â€œYes, ma’am,” January said.
    â€œWell, that’s that, then. Exactly what do you want to know?”
    â€œNames. I need names,” January said.
    The aging nun frowned. “Of those who’ve gone missing recently?”
    January nodded.
    Mother Mary T. leaned back in her recliner, folded her hands in her lap and then closed her eyes, as if she was about to take a nap. January knew better. This was her thinking mode.
    â€œLet’s see,” the nun muttered. “A month or so ago, Delroy…” She opened her eyes and pointed to January. “You remember him—the big man with no legs, scoots around on a couple of modified