The wooden screen slid shut with a soft scrape, sealing Joe and Fra Slaven into the thin darkness of the confession booth. The incense from the previous Mass still hung in the air, heavy and sweet.
Joe breathed shakily.
“Bless me, Father… for I might not last much longer.”
Fra Slaven’s voice came gently through the lattice.
“Speak, Joe. The Lord hears you.”
Joe pressed his forehead against the wood.
“It’s the pharmakeia, Father.”
His voice cracked.
“It’s killing me slow. I feel my mind slipping, my spirit drowning. I can’t do this anymore.”
There was a long silence—Fra Slaven wasn’t shocked, only heartbroken.
“Joe… why didn’t you come sooner?”
Joe swallowed hard.
“Because I didn’t know how to say it. But now I do.”
He took a trembling breath.
“I need to escape. To Croatia. Like a thief in the night. No goodbyes, no explanations. If I stay here, they’ll keep dosing me until I disappear.”
Fra Slaven exhaled softly, the sound of a man who understands too well.
“Joe… if your body and soul are in danger, you must go. Quietly. Quickly. Let God be your guide and your cover.”
Joe’s hands shook in his lap.
“Will you bless me, Father? For the road… and for the courage?”
The priest raised his hand behind the screen—Joe could almost feel the warmth through the wood.
“Go in peace, Joe,” Fra Slaven whispered.
“And may the angels guard your steps to Croatia.”
Joe nodded, tears slipping silently down his face.
“Thank you, Father… I think this is the only way I survive.”