“We’re the only ones left, you and I,” the angel said to me, wincing as her head hit her pillow. “The dreamers. The innocents. Stay that way for me, won’t you, my darling?”

I nodded, distracted, too busy watching a piece of brown fluff dance in the shadows of her room.

Her real name is Tabitha, but I like to call her Mommy. She looks like an angel, with her blonde hair fanning out over her pillow like it does. And she calls me Niccy, twists a strand of my hair around her biggest finger, and breathes hope into my body when I’m asleep.

My Daddy died two years ago, when I was four. Mommy has a new boyfriend now; his name is Sven. He likes to pick me up and twirl me around his head. He says he likes my laugh because it sounds like broken glass. Pure.

“I don’t want you to go,” the words leave my mouth, and I can’t help but realize that, no matter what, she’s going. Going. Gone.

“I must,” she takes a soft breath, pain jerking in and out of her writhing body. “Be good and gracious for me. Do not fear the tempest, fear only the tempter.” Her eyes flutter closed, and I sit on the bed and watch the angel die.