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Selma

Selma didn’t realize the collection bowl had reached her until a little too late and now she’s fumbling awkwardly, almost spilling it as she tries to get her stent open one-handed. This always happens. She finally gets her vein going and makes a fist, and gives a little more than she would have if she didn’t feel like everyone was staring.

The drops of purple turn to rich red as she passes it down the pew: transubstantiation, the everyday miracle. Selma waits for the dizziness to pass as, ahead of her, the front rows shuffle forward to taste God’s coin.

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