*Note: The artist has chosen not to provide translations for all of the terms not written in English. We invite the readers of this piece to research and learn for greater understanding.*

“Para po. Para po!” I yelled. Sweat poured down my face as my companion and I were traveling down a slippery, muddy road. It was getting dark and the street lights were becoming dim, as if they were copying the sun. The hot, thick air of Battan, Philippines hugged us as we walked.  

“I think that was the final trike, Sister Hafoka,” said Sister Pagaspas, as we watched two people jammed behind the driver, and the little cart filled to the brim with a lil kid sitting on the top waving at us.

I paused and looked behind us. The road seemed to be a long tongue, and from where I was standing, it could be leading to the mouth of a horrific monster. I glanced at my white G-shock watch, now turning a light yellow. The time was creeping around six. A weak smile spread upon both our faces and we continued to walk. It was quiet, but the wind played a sweet melody. Staring at the rice fields I turned to Sister Pagaspas, who was reading over our White Missionary Handbook.

“You know, the rice fields are like the waves back home. The only thing missing is the sound of the crashing waves on the shore.”  

Sister Pagaspas smiled and wrapped her arm around mine “Sister-” she said while rolling the r, “don’t be homesick, wag yon, no to that.” We laughed and went over the discussions teaching one another each other’s languages. 

We watched as caribous were moving in the fields like clouds in the sky. 

“Sister, look over there.” She pointed across the rice fields, and there seemed to be lights in the distance, “Alam mo ba (you know what) that’s Manila, there’s a ferry there and maybe four hundred pesos, we can be there in forty-five minutes.”

“I thought you’re not from Battan. Aren’t you from Bisaya? How do you know?” 

She looked at me with a devious smile. “Secret.” 

While laughing we noticed that the moon was peeking right behind the skyline, and the sky was painted a deep purplish blue with hints of magenta.

“Sister,” whispered Sister Pagaspas, “we need to hurry home. It is getting late and we have curfew.” 

“You’re not scared, are you?” 

“You know,” she said while squeezing my arm, “merron ang story, there were two elders. They were walking and they felt like they were being watched. So they got too deep in the woods and they saw a little hut. Syempre na man missionaries sila (of course as missionaries) they talpo the house, but no one answered. So they started walking back from where they came from, alam mo ba, they saw a man and his caribou in the air.” 

I shouted while pointing in the sky, “Like that!” And as fast as the little roaches scatter in the light, my companion was out of there. She was running towards the now visible city lights that were probably a quarter mile away. Before I could yell anything, a car began to honk right behind us.

We both jumped like the frogs hiding in the palayan. It was an old beat-up truck, maybe a low-rider. It was a rusty red like color, and there was a couple maybe around our age a few years older. The man was in the driver’s seat, and he tilted his head towards us showing us his face, which was unshaven, and his eyes were blood-shot red. He fumbled among his words. 

“Sssiissteerr, yo-you need a ride?” His smile was innocent, but his eyes were hiding something. The woman in the passenger seat was fidgeting her fingers and kept her face hidden behind her long matted black hair. She seemed to tremble a little, and then with a quick glance she whispered, “Do you need a ride?”

Before I could reject the obvious horror movie scene that could play out, my companion answered, “Opo Salamat,” and in a wink we were in the truck. 

I stared at my companion. She just smiled and started to work. Sister Pagaspas gave directions, “Excuse me, po, just there is okay, by the nearest building. We have an appointment.” 

But the guy stayed silent. So I hopped in and asked, “What’s your name, Sister?” 

She stayed silent, and in the side mirror her right eye was purple and swollen and it was watering.

I stared at my companion and blurted out in the silence,  “Dito lang, just here please!” 

But the guy just kept going. My companion held my hand tightly, and her lips started moving. I reached in my bag fumbling to grab my Book of Mormon or anything for protection, and in that moment my companion shared, “You know, Brother and Sister, as missionaries we love to share about Jesus. And in one of the scriptural books, the Book of Mormon, there’s a verse that shares about how God is our salvation and we should not be afraid. In second Nephi chapter twenty-two verse two,  ‘Behold, God is my salvation; I will trust, and not be afraid’”

 Before Sister Pagaspas could finish, our faces were slammed onto the back of the head rest. The driver whispered in a trembling voice, “Get…out.” 

The woman was holding tightly to the man’s hand. Her eyes were peering into whatever was hidden behind his. Blood slowly trickled beneath her tight grip. The woman said sternly, “Please, Sisters, go.” 

We hopped out, leaving The Book Of Mormon on our seat opened up on the verse.