Usually, it's Michael who gets caught making stupid mistakes. Not because he's dense or thick or not detail-oriented (far from it) but because he gets wrapped up in his emotions and doesn't always think before he acts or reacts. And here I am, having done something both stupid and dangerous. I left an object of divine power lying in a New York City alley. They don't really have but two powers. As for the first – the bestowal of divine history – no human would believe you; but the second – the power of flight – well that's more difficult to explain away.

Since I can hardly call him a thief, since he didn't really steal the wings – I'll refer to him as my quarry. Graham Flood had been battling addiction for 3 years, ever since his wife died from cancer and his son was 'accidentally' killed by the police in a 'house call' during the Pandemic. Probably the first thing Graham thought when he began to be airborne was that he could finally see his wife and son.

I caught his attention by flying next to him for a few minutes, guiding him to the nearest rooftop. He stumbled upon landing, of course. So, actually, did I. We angels may walk on clouds, but they're firm enough to hold the wingless souls who arrive every second. But human concrete is another surface entirely.

Graham Flood, once he was standing, came over and embraced  me! I'm not used to human contact – it's often rough, moist or downright sweaty, and intolerably warm. I wriggled out and smiled at him, doing my best imitation of heaven's Head Gatekeeper, St. Peter. I smiled beatifically.

"Mah fam'ly! Where's mah wife an' kid? Ah wanna see 'em!" he cries. Graham looked around and down, scratched his head and then his crotch. "Why would dere be an entrance ta Heaven inna Bowery?"

"I'm sorry, Graham. Those wings don't belong to you. You're not dead, just a bit hung over." I'd overheard other angels use human expressions before and were often baffled by what they meant by them. Now, the phrase 'took the air right out of him' came to mind. His whole body slumped, and he asked me, very quietly, "Wha'dya mean?"

"I mean, you're alive. For now, that is. You'll see your family soon." I patted him on the back, and thumped him between his shoulder blades, just above where the child-sized wings were. They loosened and fell off. He let out a stifled sob.

"Without mah fam'ly, ah'm nuthin..." he said. He took off running and leapt from the roof we were standing on. And died when he hit the pavement, knocking over a commodities trader and smashing his head on the ground. It all happened so fast; I'd had no time to stop him. The worst part wasn't that I couldn't have done anything even if I'd been able to. Or that I was guilty of unknowingly contributing to his suicide. Oh, no.

The worst part was that, when I returned to the roof, Esperanza's wings were gone.