Chapter 1
“Commit your way to the Lord; trust in Him and He will act. He will make your righteousness shine like the dawn, your just cause like the noonday sun.” — Psalm 37:5–6
It was a cold Sunday morning, and Mass was nearing its end. Father Jeremiah had begun distributing Communion to the parishioners, who patiently formed a line to receive the blessed host, while Pascal—his altar boy—carefully served the wine from a simple yet elegant silver chalice, symbolizing the body and blood of Christ.
Once the faithful had completed this part of the rite and received Christ in the form of the Eucharist, Father Jeremiah proclaimed:
“Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit. As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.”
The congregation responded with a unified “Amen,” and the priest began reciting the final prayer to conclude the day’s Mass.
The parishioners opened their Bibles and recited together:
“Hail Mary, full of grace, The Lord is with thee;Blessed art thou among women, And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God,Pray for us sinners, Now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”
When the last Bible closed, the ritual of dismissal followed. This time, however, it carried a special weight—a heartfelt, emotional farewell to Pascal, the young altar boy. The boy had just turned eighteen; his years of service at the parish had come to an end. From now on, Pascal would dedicate himself to becoming a seminarian, having earned a scholarship to study in Mexico—news that Jeremiah shared with pride, moving the congregation deeply.
Pascal had been, without question, a devoted disciple. He was on the path to becoming an impeccable young priest—humble, well-mannered, and grounded in strong Christian values. Since childhood, he had been sponsored by Father Jeremiah and the parish, growing up surrounded by unwavering Catholic guidance and resisting the temptations of adolescence—temptations that could have led him astray more than once. Jeremiah saw his younger self reflected in Pascal, recalling his own childhood and the moment he first approached the Lord’s path.
Unlike Pascal, who came from a respectable family of faithful Catholics, Father Jeremiah had experienced a lonely childhood. His mother, Eve—a young immigrant who arrived in the country alone with her infant son, fleeing her abusive husband—died in an accident when Jeremiah was still a child.The nuns of the Discalced Carmelite congregation were the ones who sheltered her and later raised Jeremiah after her passing. Sister Theresa, who had lovingly taken him under her wing, still accompanied him in his ecclesiastical duties to that very day.
Once the farewell concluded, Father Jeremiah blessed the assembly as usual:
“Go in peace, the Mass has ended.”
And the faithful replied:
“Thanks be to God.”
They slowly made their way out of the church.
When the parish was finally empty, Pascal stayed behind to extinguish the candles and carefully restore the altar for the next Mass. For the last time, he completed his duties as altar server. In a quiet, intimate gesture, he laid his liturgical garments at the feet of Saint Tarcisius—the patron saint of altar boys—garments he had worn with pride and responsibility for the past eight years.
He then embraced Father Jeremiah and Sister Theresa tightly before saying goodbye. Theresa would take over Pascal’s duties until a new altar boy appeared—though in that small town, such volunteers were becoming increasingly rare.
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Ishmael was walking with a distant stare and a hardened expression, but with his guard always up. The streets of Northside, where he lived, were anything but safe or friendly. Abandoned factories and derelict buildings lined the area from end to end, serving as the backdrop for all kinds of illegal dealings. Police patrols circled constantly, and gunfire was a daily occurrence. Wandering peacefully was not an option—not unless one wanted to risk becoming the victim of a stray bullet.
The local gangsters hurled insults at him as he passed, mostly aimed at his parents—well-known addicts in the area, always in debt because of their habits. Ishmael glared back defiantly and kept walking; he didn’t care what they thought of him.
Near the entrance of the block of apartments where he lived, his father sat on the sidewalk smoking marijuana and drinking beer with a group of gang members. When he spotted his son, he called out with a sharp whistle.
“I’m not a dog for you to whistle at me… dad… dy…”
“Don’t piss me off, kid! I’ll call you however I want. Did you bring the money?”
Ishmael pulled a crumpled handful of bills from his pocket and held it out.
“Three hundred? Only this?” his father snapped.
“If you wanted more money, you should’ve gone yourself!” the boy shouted.
“I would’ve done a better job than you, you useless little shit,” the man barked.
“The only shit here is you—sending me out to get money to pay for your addictions,” Ishmael retorted, turning toward the building.
“If you’re going home, tell your slut of a mother her time’s up—she can stop screwing around with that client!” his father yelled after him.
Ishmael ignored him and climbed the filthy, decaying stairwell. Trash piled up everywhere; homeless people slept in the hallways, and squatters had taken over the abandoned apartments.
As he approached his floor, pornographic moans echoed through the building—loud, unmistakable, and coming from his own apartment. Annoyed, an obese neighbor opened her door.
“Tell your whore of a mother to shut up when she’s getting screwed! There are kids here who shouldn’t have to hear that!”
“Tell her yourself, filthy cow. You don’t even have kids. Turn up the TV if you don’t wanna hear her,” Ishmael shot back.
“You little shit! Your whole family is garbage!” the woman shrieked, slamming her door.
When Ishmael opened his door, he froze.
His mother—completely naked—was on the couch, having sex with Simon, his best friend. A boy his age. Practically a brother.
For a moment, all three stared at one another in horror. Then Ishmael’s expression twisted into pure hatred.
“You son of a bitch! With my mother?! And you… pig… he’s sixteen. My age!” he shouted, knocking over everything within reach.
“Calm down, honey! I’m sorry, it won’t happen again!” his mother cried, scrambling off Simon and trying to hold her son.
“Won’t happen again? You’re a drug-addicted whore with no shame!”
Simon bolted from the apartment half-naked, terrified. Ishmael’s mother, still unclothed and crying, kept apologizing, but he wouldn’t listen.
She hugged him tightly—just as his father burst in.
“Hey… that kid just ran outta here. Did he leave the money?”
“Abel! Can’t you see your son is having a breakdown?” she snapped.
“He scared the kid off and now he’s gone without paying?” the man barked, stepping toward Ishmael.
He shoved his wife aside and began pushing Ishmael violently. The boy shoved him back, and they fell into a brutal fight. The mother tried to separate them, but both men knocked her to the floor repeatedly.
Suddenly, the apartment door flew open. Police swarmed in—alerted by the commotion. Within seconds, all three were arrested. His parents were taken to the nearest station; Ishmael was taken to a juvenile detention center.
He spent the night there. By the time they finished taking his statement, it was too late to release him, and his parents were still in custody.
Early the next morning, his aunt arrived to sign the release. They left in silence until they were far from the detention center.
When he finally asked about his parents, she answered coldly that they remained detained—and that she didn’t want to know anything more. Ishmael barely knew her. She was his father’s sister, a working-class woman who wanted nothing to do with her brother’s chaotic lifestyle.
Still, he thanked her for picking him up. She gave him a sharp, ironic smile.
“I’ll help you,” she said. “But you’re not staying with me.”
Confused and irritated, he asked where she was taking him.
“To a youth home. I can’t mix you with my family.”
“You’re taking me to an orphanage??”
“It’s not an orphanage.”
“Then what is it?”
“A youth shelter. They specialize in kids from the street, drugs, stuff like that.”
“I’m not from the street, and I’m not a drug addict!”
“Right. And you expect me to believe that? You should study, be someone in life—not a failure like your parents.”
“Stop the car. I’m getting out!”
“Oh yes you are going—your parents are locked up, and legally I’m your guardian.”
A struggle erupted inside the moving car. Ishmael tried to grab the steering wheel; the vehicle swerved wildly as the aunt screamed. When the car finally stopped, he flung the door open and ran—down the street, through traffic, without looking back.
