“T minus ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one … we have ignition. We have lift off!” If he was lucky, Andrew would emerge from his NASA fantasy around the time of the offering. All too often he came back to earth just before the moment of confession—which meant he was still T minus forty-five till the end. Ugh. The bulletin would then become a checklist, a way to mark the droning passage of time. Confession? Check. Assurance of pardon? Check. Reading of the law? Check. Creed?