Moros hunched forward, closer to the grille. “One can assume that God created the best possible world, but he gave us free will. So evil comes into the world through the choices some individuals make. .”

“But why?”

Moros inclined his head. “Perhaps because the human heart is vulnerable to the whole parade of venal and mortal sins. We must never forget that God has a rival who wants to collect our souls.”

Then the penitent’s words tumbled out in a rush. “There was this man. It was real big in the news. But this was before you came here, so you probably didn’t hear about it.”

“What?” Father Moros was taken aback by the personal reference, but before he could say another word the penitent raced on.

“He violated this child, and they let him get away with it. They said some of the people on the jury would not believe a kid over an adult, and that’s why they acquitted him. I mean, that’s not right. This guy was a teacher, and he got this six-year-old to play with his thing, you know, he told him it was a popsicle and got him to. .”

“Please, calm down,” Father Moros said, not prepared for the lurch of velocity building in the language coming through the grille.

“I’m sorry, but I have to get this off my chest; it bothers me so much I can’t sleep. Okay?”

Father Moros nodded his head. Yes. Yes. This was the work he was called to do. The thing every priest knew could walk through the door at any time. And now here it was. “Go on.” Moros fingered the rosary in his hand for reassurance and found the black beads shiny with sweat.

“All right,” the penitent said. “I always thought God was, you know, like a real fierce micromanager, that he was involved in everything. But maybe it turns out he’s more laid back, and sometimes he uses ordinary people to make things come out right. Is that possible?”