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Riley has never heard of Santa Muerte. He knows most of the saints- memorized them growing up. He found a nice, big book on them in the local library, and sat there, at one of the reading desks, poring over the pages. Santa Muerte doesn't sound- good, on the face of it, and the rest of the title doesn't clean up that picture too well, either. He understands that death is normal part of human existence. Fearing death and taking pain to avoid it is just the mind running away from reality. He wouldn't say that it's holy, though. What comes after death is holy, but death itself is as much a part of this world as the next.
Southwestern literature, though, that's exciting. He's already read his Faulkner, his Tennessee, his O'Conner- some of it, anyway, as much as Dr. Walsh allotted time for. It's right up there with the psychology textbooks he devoured, sitting crosslegged on the rug of her library while she cleared her throat disapprovingly to encourage him out the door. It was the best time he ever spent with her, outside their sparring sessions.
He takes a seat, avoiding any nooks, crannies, and vents, although this room has less than average- and yeah, it is feeling stuffy in here. Riley doesn't mind, though. Dr. Walsh trained him to tolerate adverse conditions. It's a shame this all has to happen at 14; otherwise he could have spent more time training at high altitudes. He looks for his textbook, which he finds under his seat.
Hopefully there are some independents in this class who haven't already decided the world is against them. All of them need allies, and fast.
