Sunday mornings came heavy in Clarksdale.

The sun climbed slow, like it too was reluctant to rise under Pastor Jedidiah Moore’s gaze. Inside the white clapboard church, the air was thick with starch, sweat, and salvation. Sammie sat in the third pew, same spot every week, pretending to follow the sermon. But the truth was, he hadn’t heard a word since Guest walked in.

Lord help me, he thought, this ain’t about no choir of angels.

It was the way she moved during hymns—soft, not showy. He imagined her singing something else, not “Come Ye Sinners” but something low and blue, back bent over a piano in a room full of smoke.

He caught her eye once. After the benediction, Sammie lingered by the sycamore, watching her move through the crowd. When she caught his eye, it felt like being seen without clothes.

She smiled.

He looked down, sudden heat in his face, like he’d been caught with a dirty thought in the middle of prayer. But when he looked up again, she was closer.