Bishop Manuel Aringarosa's body had endured many kinds of pain, and yet the searing heat of the bullet wound in his chest felt profoundly foreign to him. Deep and grave. Not a wound of the flesh… but closer to the soul.
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He opened his eyes, trying to see, but the rain on his face blurred his vision.
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Where am I? He could feel powerful arms holding him, carrying his limp body like a rag doll, his black cassock flapping.
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