“I get another letter from my sister who is in Honduras riding mules and skidding around the muddy mountain roads in a pick-up truck. The roads have curves sharp enough to tempt death, sharp enough to see yourself leaving. When the priest drives, she writes, he is the real danger, his faith too big to be reasonable or safe. My sister, Kay, has learned to hope for days when the truck breaks down. Otherwise, she and the other relief workers cower in the open bed as the priest speeds through the countryside; they lean all their weight towards the mountain to keep the truck from sliding off the washed-out roads.”