The rain fell in sheets across the parking lot of St. Margaret's Orphanage, a squat cinder block building wedged between a laundromat and a pawn shop in the worst part of the city. Lightning split the sky and thunder rolled through the valley like God clearing his throat.

Inside, Sister Catherine wiped down the long wooden tables in the dining hall, her black habit clinging to her frame from the humidity that crept through the old building's cracks. She was a stern woman in her fifties, built like a fence post, with hands that could crack walnuts and a voice that could curdle milk.