Liam Perrin

By the time they had verified both miracles, filed the proper paperwork, declared him to have lived a heroically virtuous life, and subsequently canonized him as Saint, the pickings were slim regarding patronages.

“How about ‘Patron Saint of Bakers?'”

“Taken,” said the clerk.

“Bar tenders?”

The clerk shook his head.

“Bee keepers?”

The clerk sighed. “I have an idea.” He scribbled a note. “Take this to Abbot Anthony down the hall.”

And that, as it turns out, is how Bob ended up holding the shovel one moonlit night for Left-handed Louie, Gravedigger, Queen of Heaven Cemetery. Unfortunately for Bob, he was the answer to Louie’s prayers.

She reached out with a finger and poked at him. His whole body wobbled, and his features momentarily lost cohesion – like a pebble dropped in a pond. But he continued otherwise unperturbed around the room mumbling to himself and manipulating instruments.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “How can he be here and … not here?”

The Old One shrugged, watching him. “Isn’t it the stranger thing for a man to be where he is?”