For the second time in a month, I found myself sitting in a church. As a matter of fact, it was the second time in a decade, too. There were differences between the churches, of course. Saint Adalbert, in whose pews I currently reposed, was Roman style. Saint Nicholas, where I’d all too recently witnessed the effects of the Lazarus Dot in all its in-glory, was the Greek variety. And, what’s more, I was the only soul in Saint Adelbert. I’d been unmolested by any human presence as I silently gazed, hour after hour, at dust motes floating through the progressively slanting light. Saint Nicholas, on the other hand, on that mournful day, had been packed to the rafters.