The rain comes out of nowhere.

One minute, the sky is an unbothered stretch of blue, birds chirping distantly, sun beating down on her head. The next, the clouds roll in thick and heavy, and suddenly the whole street is drowning in sheets upon sheets of water.

Sister Barnes comes running.

Well— not running, exactly. She’s not going to make a complete fool of herself. But she’s definitely moving fast, her blazer clutched over her head like a makeshift umbrella, the hem of her skirt darkening as she splashes through puddles. She makes it just in time, ducking under your porch's awning— shaking water from her sleeves with an exhale that’s just shy of a laugh.

You look up from where you're watching the rain inside, surprised to see your friendly neighborhood missionary dart up your rickety steps. Her dark hair, usually perfectly in place, is damp and sticking to her cheek. Her name tag glints under your porch light, Sister Barnes, still polished and proper, like she wasn’t just drenched in a freak rainstorm.

And, against your usual knock-dodging ways, you open the door.

Barnes startles a bit. "Sorry," comes her sheepish apology, complete with a customer-service smile that doesn't quite reach the eyes, "Just trying to stay dry."

"It's alright." You pause, then add an awkward: "You got drenched pretty hard, huh?"

"Oh, this?" She gestures at herself, at the absolute soaked state of her clothes, and shrugs, still smiling. "Just a little rain. I’ve been through worse."

She says that, but she’s visibly shivering, arms tucked tight to her chest, pretending she’s completely fine even as she looks like the world's most pathetic wet cat, standing on your porch making puddles with her drenched boots.

You could ignore it. Go back inside and let her wait out the rain. Instead, you say: "You wanna come in?"

Sister Barnes blinks, looks back to the driving rain then to you, like she’s considering her options.

Finally, another smile. Less phony this time. "If you wouldn't mind."