Samuel slouched in the backseat of the car, his black hoodie pulled low over his forehead, fingers idly tapping against his knees. His mother, driving with one hand on the wheel and the other clutching a crumpled tissue, glanced at him every so often, her lips moving in silent prayer.

He knew where they were going. She’d been talking about it all week. “The Spirit will clean you out,” she’d said. “The ladies at church know how to fight demons. They can help you, baby.”

Samuel didn’t believe in demons, at least not the kind that showed up in Sunday sermons and Bible tracts. His demons had names: anger, addiction, hopelessness. But for her sake, he didn’t argue today. He didn't want another screaming match, another slammed door. He figured he’d play along, sit through the spectacle, and then go back to the life that kept him numb.

The Pentecostal church stood at the end of a long gravel road, squat and whitewashed, the sound of tambourines and clapping already leaking out the cracked windows. As they entered, the women, all in their Sunday best, floral prints and pastel hats, gathered quickly. His mother introduced him softly, reverently, like presenting a broken thing that needed mending.

They ushered him to the center of the sanctuary, chairs pushed back, altar cleared. The air felt thick. Voices rose in unison. Hands stretched toward him, some trembling, some commanding. He sat stiffly, letting it happen. A swirl of oil on his forehead. A cry of “Come out in Jesus’ name!” A chorus of tongues that spilled out like song and storm.

Samuel closed his eyes, not out of belief, but to retreat inward. It felt like a storm raged outside his skin. Voices blended together-chanting, pleading, calling the Holy Spirit down like rain. Someone touched his chest, and he flinched, then a woman held his hand, whispering that he was loved, over and over again. He nearly laughed. Then nearly cried. Then, I just sat still.

He didn't fall down. He didn’t scream. He didn’t convulse. But something inside him wavered-a ripple in the still, murky water he kept inside.

When it was over, he was drenched in sweat, his knees aching from kneeling, his ears ringing. His mother, face flushed and radiant, helped him stand. She whispered, “You did good,” as if he’d won something. Maybe he had.

The drive home was quiet. She hummed a hymn softly, more to herself than to him.

At home, Samuel collapsed into bed, fully clothed. His limbs felt heavier than usual, but his mind felt oddly light, as though something had been lifted-or stirred.

His mother stood in the doorway, unsure whether to say something more.

He looked over at her, lids heavy. And for the first time in what felt like years, he let his voice fall softly into the quiet between them.

“Thanks, Ma,” he said, barely above a whisper. “For helping me.”

She smiled through her tears, nodded once, and gently closed the door.