They came early in the morning. In their starchy shirts, and their polished shoes. Their hats laced with tulle and plastic baby's breath. Children clinging to skirts, and bibles in hand. A steady stream of an older generation. A different time.
What are they doing here, I asked.
'Who, them?'
Yes. All those church people.
Their church came down in the earthquake.
Michael gave them the chapel to have their services.
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