We hunt for shadows through the dark, hidey passages in the sixteenth-century building with a sloth as a walking partner. Blood stains on the walls look like graffiti. My wife assumes, “Don’t try to blame this on the inquisition. After all, the blade needs to be kept sharp.” Everybody is guffawing except me. “There was a lot of animosity among the leaders,” she adds. “Mom, your jokes always amuse me,” my younger daughter remarks. Her elder sister in a red anorak is pointing to fresh blood stains with human excreta on a rock. “Here smells like a unique blend of Brazilian and Colombian coffee,” I vocalize. The sloth scoops up a white rosary and a photo of Mary from a corner. “Yes! These are the exhibits.” My daughter postulates and continues, “Maybe…yes, he even threatened to resign, but I’m sure it’s all bluff.” “How do you?” my wife demands. I add, “Don’t forget that she’s practicing a journalist.” Suddenly, we hear a blaring horn out from our car. “This is the way to divert our attention,” my wife utters, clutching my hand firmly and the other hand with Callow Colleen. I grip the guru and she with the sloth. We linger.