Greg Caputi sits in a steel chair bolted to the ground, while a single bulb swinging from the ceiling causes the shadows to dance restlessly over the concrete floor. His body is tense, his hands gripping the armrests as though they are his last anchor to reality. Before him, a figure kneels, shrouded in a burlap sack, their identity concealed. The figure is utterly still, save for the rise and fall of their breath.

Beside them stands the man in charge—tall, imposing, his dark robe blending into the shadows. His sharp features and piercing gaze are unrelenting as he paces slowly and deliberately.

“You know why you’re here,” the man says, his calm voice echoing against the bare walls in the stark, cold room.

Greg swallows, his throat dry. “I don’t understand. Why me?”

The man stops, his gaze locking onto Greg. “You came here seeking purpose. Transformation. This is what it demands.”

Greg’s heart pounds in his chest. He looks at the kneeling figure. “What did they do?” he asks, his voice trembling.

“Their actions are not your concern. What matters is your obedience.”

Greg shakes his head, his mind racing. “You’re asking me to—” He falters. “I don’t…”

The man steps closer, towering over Greg. “This is not about understanding. It is about faith. Action. You seek meaning, yet hesitate when it stares you in the face.”

“I’m not ready,” Greg whispers.

“You are,” the man replies sharply. “Or you would not be here.”

Greg stares at the kneeling figure, his chest tightening with fear. As if sensing his hesitation, the man moves to a table in the corner. Beneath a cloth, something waits.

With a swift motion, the man pulls the cloth away, revealing a glass tank. Inside, a python coils lazily, its scales gleaming under the dim light.

Greg recoils. “What is this?” he stammers, his voice breaking. “What are you gonna…?”

The man tilts his head, as if mildly amused. “Oh,” he says casually, “wrong one.” He covers the snake again, then moves to another draped object. With a second dramatic flourish, he pulls away the cloth, revealing something entirely unexpected.

Greg stares in disbelief. “Mary Poppins,” he exclaims. “That’s… that’s my goldfish!”

Inside the glass tank, his goldfish swims aimlessly, its tiny fins flicking through the water. The sight is so absurd, so out of place in this cold, oppressive room, that Greg momentarily wonders if he’s hallucinating.

The man gestures to the tank. “If you refuse to act, you will be forced to carry your fish home. Alone.”

Greg’s stomach sinks. The tank is enormous, far too large for one person to carry. The thought of lugging it home by himself is humiliating and ridiculous, yet the man’s message is clear: refusal comes at a cost.

Greg’s eyes flick between the goldfish and the kneeling figure. His thoughts churn in chaos. He came here seeking something—a higher calling, a chance to become more than he was—but now, he feels trapped. Yet deep down, he knows the truth: to refuse is to fail, not just here but within himself.

Slowly, Greg rises from the chair. His legs feel like lead, his body trembling. Each step toward the kneeling figure feels heavier than the last. The man in charge watches silently, his gaze unflinching.

Greg kneels before the figure. His heart hammers in his chest, his hands shaking as he reaches out. In a voice barely audible, he says, “I forgive you.”

The air seems to shift as a tangible weight in the room lifts slightly. The kneeling figure exhales a ragged breath. Greg feels a strange sense of release, as though he has let go of something long buried.

The man in charge steps forward and removes the burlap sack. Beneath it is a man, his face serene, his eyes brimming with gratitude.

“You are no longer Greg Caputi,” the man says solemnly to Greg. “From this moment, you are Father Joseph.”

The words strike like a thunderclap. Greg—now Father Joseph—feels both burdened and unburdened, stripped of one identity and handed another.

The man places a hand on Joseph’s shoulder. “This is what it means to serve: to act when it is hardest. To give when it costs the most. Welcome to the church.”

Father Joseph looks up, still reeling. “Who… who are you?”

“I am the Archbishop of this diocese,” the man replies simply. “And you, Father Joseph, are now a servant of its mission.”

Father Joseph turns and walks toward the door, but just as he moves, the Archbishop stops him.

“One more thing,” the Archbishop says slowly, his voice deliberate.

Joseph stops and turns. “Yes?”

The Archbishop’s gaze is steady. “Can you send in the next one, please, if you don’t mind.”

“Um, sure!” Father Joseph replies, praying he can leave now without further interruption.