Some habits aren’t about comfort. Dana always gets in on the passenger side, sliding the seat all the way back before leaning it down, almost as low as it can go. This is the way she always rides with me, regardless of how she’s feeling.

It’s Tuesday, and the Versa smells like someone spilled cherry-scented air freshener in the cabin, strong enough to gag you. In her lap is a folder full of paperwork, the kind several participants in this study carry with them. Documents like appointment slips or insurance documents and a Twix wrapper Dana will likely forget about until next Tuesday’s appointment. We pull out of the driveway of her trailer. For the first mile, she doesn’t say a word. It’s normal. Part of our routine. Dana talks when she talks.

“Ever go to church?” I just turned onto Kingshighway when she decided to speak.

I tell her yes.

“Well. I used to,” Dana says, not even slightly disappointed in her answer. She’s not sad about it. Just stating a fact. It’s like if you said you’d lived in a city once upon a time. Matter of fact. Nothing special at all about it.

“Yeah?” I ask, because asking why isn’t my job. Not in this seat. It took me longer than I’d care to admit to learn that driving is the job. Driving and listening. Not fixing. Not following up. Just get Dana to her appointment on time, all without turning the ten minutes in between into something she’s managing for my sake.

But she keeps going anyway.

“Yeah, well, the Pastor? That guy. He like knew everybody’s business,” Dana shakes her head. “Even knew mine before I said one word to him. Not sure who told him, but somebody did. And then? Then it was just.” Dana stared out the window. “Then it was just this thing that everybody knew. Nobody said anything to my face. They didn’t have to. Because the looks? I’ve seen them before. ‘She’s a drug addict.’ ‘She’s an alcoholic.’ ‘She’ll sleep with anyone for a hit.’ Not that anyone said those things,” Dana said, smiling. “But I’ve heard it all before.”

The light changes. I merge onto Highway 61.

“I figured it was a church so I kept going at least for a while. I mean I was getting my life together. I thought church would be the last place anyone would judge me. Right?” Dana glanced out the window again. “So I kept going for a while after that. Kept showing up, sitting in the same pew.” She turned to face me. “And not one person, nobody, Joe, ever once asked me how I was doing. Not the pastor. None of the deacons. Not even that little group that meets on Wednesdays at 6:30.”

I thought about what I could say to Dana. I wanted to say something, like ‘That’s not what church is supposed to be.’ Or ‘I’m so sorry that happened to you.’ I even thought about asking her if she ever decided to try again, find another church. I want to be useful, help her in this moment. It’s like a mosquito bite you can’t quite reach to itch. But it still itches.

I smile and nod, staying quiet, keeping both hands on the wheel, letting the words sit there in the Versa. She wasn’t done.

“I didn’t leave because of the people who told him. I left because he never came and checked in with me. Never. Not one time. A man who knew everything about me, so everyone said, and he never asked me a single question. Sounds like a perfect leader, don’t it? I thought followers of Jesus were supposed to love one another. How can you possibly love me if you don’t talk to me?”

I shrugged as we pulled into the parking lot at Gibson. Dana grabbed her folder and her Monster Energy drink. Before she opened the door, Dana had a cigarette in her mouth, lighter at the ready. She says, almost like an afterthought, the kind of line people drop when they’ve already decided they need to move on:

“You know what? I don’t need somebody who knows my business. I need somebody who’ll ask.” The cigarette is lit before I can turn off the car.

Dana’s out of the car, walking up to the front entrance before I can answer. That’s fine. I don’t think she was waiting for one.