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A long, foolish time ago he knelt by his bedside every night and said a prayer. He clutched the small cross, the only thing he ever knew belonged to his daddy, and thanked God for his blessings.

Malcolm Reynolds had faith until he realized that faith was good for less than nothing. He put his cross away, buried deep inside one of his trunks, and the only thing his bedside was good for now was as a surface to lean his boots on every night.

Once a year, after being extra stoic all day and tossing off a few unheeded remarks against religion, he disappeared into his bunk and slowly approached his bed. Mal knelt slowly, almost as if it hurt him to do it, and folded his hands on the edge of the bed.

Haltingly, he asked the heavens to watch over the soul of his momma…the only thing in his life that meant more than shunning God.