Rafael nodded his agreement. While he hid himself among the benches that had once housed the choir at the front of the church, I turned to the confessional and opened its wooden door. It was an old-fashioned style confessional, one in which both penitent and priest had to enter in person—unlike the virtual linkups found in modem churches. The carvings on the outside of the confessional were gouged and the door hung from one hinge, but the seat inside and latticework that separated priest from penitent were still intact. I sat down on the seat, hoping that the closet-like structure wasn’t about to become my coffin. And waited. And listened. And despite my jittery nerves, eventually dozed ...