I sit in the back room of the Kingdom Hall, reserved for latecomers, families with small children, and pariahs. A family comes in, plops their older relative in the back, then proceeds to the front auditorium. The old woman’s fingers grasp stiffly at the crisp leaves of her Bible, but her hands cramp when she tries to turn individual pages. She is sitting next to me, so I help her. I turn to Scriptures and share my Bible the way I would with anyone, the way I would even if I weren’t disfellowshipped. We sing the final song together, then the service ends and she squeezes my hand. This is the first time anyone has touched me at the Hall in months. “Thank you, sweetie. What’s your name?” I’m Natalie, I say, but then I have to tell her, because that’s the responsible Christian thing to do: But I’m disfellowshipped. She is shocked, then annoyed, then finally, silent. She drops my hand and turns away from me. Her family comes to the room and retrieves her. They all walk past me without a word.