“I want to beg him not to leave. Tell him that I’m still here. But I lie frozen. All I can do is watch as he gets up. And disappears from my view.”

“He runs his finger tips along my cheek, caressing my face. “Hush. I’m right here.” He looks at me with deep anguish in his eyes. Like there’s so much he wants to tell me but feels it’s too late now. I want to stroke his face and tell him that it will be okay. That everything will be all right. And I wish so badly that it would be.”

“. . . he lies on the couch with only his pants, boots and bandages wrapped around him. I thought about taking off his pants and boots when I sprayed the blood off him in the shower, but decided that I wasn’t here to make him comfortable.”

“You don't even like me, remember?" That's what I try to say. What actually comes out of my mouth is closer to a baby's first attempt at babbling. "Shh." He runs his fingertips along my cheek, caressing my face. "Hush. I'm right here." He looks at me with deep anguish in his eyes. Like there's so much he wants to tell me but feel it's too late now. I want to stroke his face and tell him that it will be okay. That everything will be all right. And I wish so badly that it would be.”

“Are you all right?” It’s a stupid question because there’s not much I can do for him if he isn’t all right, but it just tumbles out. He snorts. “Aside from being beaned with a rock, I’ll live.”

“I make a show of lifting him and puttinghim into the chair, grunting and staggering as though he’s terribly heavy. I want the watchers to think the angel is as heavy as he looks, because maybe then they’ll conclude that I’m stronger and tougher than I look in my underfed five-foot-two frame.Is that the beginning of an amused grinforming on the angel’s face?Whatever it is, it turns into a grimace of pain as I dump him into the chair.”

“And my instincts tell me that Raffe is mine. I found him first.”