The band was called Late Prophet. On tour again, small-town churches, rec rooms, dark bars that still smelled like decades of Budweiser. Their press kit said they played “post-folk spirituals with room for the Holy Ghost and a tambourine,” but really they were just three musicians with too many delay pedals. In Crosswell, Alberta, they played a benefit concert for the local food bank. “All proceeds to charity,” the poster said. “Come be moved. They moved them. Naomi sang like someone gently rearranging your regrets. Elias looped cello lines like train tracks turning into prayer. And Simon recited beatitudes into a vocoder weird enough to feel edgy and still saved. The congregation stood when it ended. They shouted “More!”

Afterward, the pastor shook their hands and beamed. “That was powerful,” he said. “We’re blessed to host you.” “Thanks,” Naomi said.

“We’re grateful too.”

“Of course,” he added, “we can’t offer payment but we’re giving you exposure.” Simon blinked.

Elias said, “Can we pay for diesel with exposure?”

The pastor laughed. “Oh, you’re funny. Like real prophets.”

Back in the van, Simon sat behind the wheel in silence.

Naomi said, “We knew what this was. They fed us.” “I think the sound guy took our tuner,” Elias muttered. “Also, someone asked if we were a cult.”

Just then, Naomi found a note folded under her guitar strap.

It read, in shaky pencil: “My brother died. You made the room feel less empty.” There was a ten-dollar bill inside. Simon started the van.

Elias said, “So now we’re prophets who work for ten bucks and spiritual validation?”

“No,” Naomi said. “We’re broke musicians. But apparently the Holy Spirit still likes small venues.” They drove on. That night, they slept in a Walmart parking lot and didn’t complain because sometimes the gospel isn’t fire and light. Sometimes it’s gas money and a handwritten note in the key of grace.