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cracks in the sidewalk. This job opening had been his last hope. Now he’d have to tell Rosa about the grim
     deadline that loomed next week: the end of his unemployment benefits.
    Looking up from the pavement, Mano saw the spires of Holy Trinity Church glinting in the sunshine above the clutter of signs
     along the street. Without knowing why, he began walking in their direction. A short while later, he stood in front of the
     church.
    Mano had never been devout. He relied on Rosa to tend to the religion for the family. On the day he’d lost his job, Rosa lit
     a votive candle on the family’s small shrine to La Virgen Morena and had prayed over it daily ever since. Maybe it was time
     he prayed as well.
There’s not much left for me to do
, he told himself, entering the carved wood door.
    Kneeling in the empty church, Mano heard footsteps behind him. “Good morning,” a warm voice said from the aisle.
    Mano turned and saw a blond-haired man in his mid-thirties wearing the collar of a priest. “Good morning, Father,” Mano said,
     feeling strange calling a man his own age “Father.”
    The priest extended his palm. “I’m Father Johnson.”
    Mano stood and shook his hand. “My name is Manolo Suarez.”
    “Please, sit down,” the priest said, settling into the pew next to Mano. “What brings you to church so early on such a fine
     day, Manolo?”
    Mano did not want to air his problems, but he could not bring himself to lie. “I felt a need to pray,” he said finally.
    “Most people come to pray during Mass. I’ve found that those who come in to pray at other times are usually facing something
     serious,” the priest said slowly.
    “I’d rather not talk about it, Father. It’s nothing.”
    “Then why not talk about it? Sometimes talking helps.”
    Father Johnson’s calm and open manner put Mano at ease. Speaking quietly, he told the priest about his six-month struggle
     to find a job, the loss of his car, and the end of his unemployment benefits next week. “I’ve used up all my ideas, Father.
     So I figured there was only one thing left that could help my family… and that was to pray. That’s why I’m here.”
    The priest put his hand on Mano’s shoulder, showing no fear of his bulk. “May I tell you a story about prayer, Manolo?”
    “I think that’s your job, isn’t it, Padre?” Mano answered with a small smile.
    The priest laughed. “You haven’t lost your sense of humor, Manolo. I think your family is in good hands.”
    “I don’t know, Father. Lately, I haven’t done so well,” Mano said, looking down.
    “Is that your fault? Did you ask to lose your job? Haven’t you looked for work every day? You’re doing everything you can,
     Manolo. It’s our society that’s letting you down,” the priest said with a sudden burst of passion.
    “With all due respect, Padre, no one owes me anything. It’s
my
responsibility to take care of my family.”
    “You’re right, Manolo. You do have a personal responsibility. But perhaps it’s your duty to make the world a better place
     for everyone, not just for yourself and your family.”
    “I’m not sure I understand.”
    “Let me tell you my story about prayer, Manolo. Perhaps that will help. There once was a woman who wanted very badly to win
     the lottery. Every morning, she would kneel by her bed and pray. ‘Lord, please, please, please let me win the lottery so I
     can buy a home for my poor parents.’ Every night, she would pray again. ‘Lord, please, please, please let me win the lottery.
     It’s not for me—it’s for my poor parents who don’t have a home.’ This went on for months. Every day without fail, she would
     pray, morning and night. And then one day, the Lord finally answered her prayers. He said, ‘Give me a break, lady. Buy a lottery
     ticket.’ ”
    Mano laughed harder than he had for quite some time.
    And then, without warning, he felt the shame and despair he’d been holding back for months flood over