It was another dreary hazy day.

Like so many other dreary hazy days before it.

The kind of dreary hazy day where you could open up the window and stretch out your arm through the dreary hazy haze.

Dreary hazy haze like a thick heavy vapor of thick gray split-piece soup, minus the split

peas and minus the soup, where your outstretched arm just seemingly disappears into the dreary hazy, soupless muck.

So dreary, so hazy, that you can't even see your own fingers at the end of it.

A lesser man might start to die. at the end of it.

A lesser man might start to doubt he even had fingers. But I'm no lesser man.

I'm Rank Macbatten.

Faith Detective.

The name is now.

Hello?

The knock on my door may have surprised a lesser professional or a woman,

like any of the so many unsuspecting non-priesthood-wielding women,

thinking they're alone, enjoying a fleeting moment of peace,

completely naked, standing in a glass shower, arm extended

upward, rinsing conditioner from their hair with cool water rather than warm water because

it's somehow better for your hair that way. Eyes closed, water beating

around their ears, not able to see or hear you silently staring at them through the crack

in the bathroom door until of course she does and kind of freaks out at you yelling

Don't do that. Why do you always do that? Which only makes you scowl of course and

disapproval because if I really always do that then why aren't you

...