They sat in silence on the wooden pews with just the sound of the warm drip of antiseptic from the muslin cloth hitting the surgical pan. Shanti grasped her knees to her chest as she rocked back and forth. Her head knocking against the seat-back in-sync with each tic. Her gyroscoped eyes, wide and unfocused, locked to the painting of Christ above the altar. Gently back and forth like a metronome without a score. Touch. Touch. Touch. Lost.
