AT FIRST MEGAN THOUGHT she must be dreaming. She would still be laid in the room, snoring like the rhino she was told she sounded like. She had often dreamed, as a child, that she could fly. She would hover over the school playing fields, skimming across them on the way to her morning lessons, whipping between the other children who would be so jealous at having to use their legs like everyone else.

Or she would soar above the clouds to gaze at the moon. One beat of her great wings would propel her to the upper atmosphere where the world was as small as she felt herself.

But, if you're dreaming, do you think you're dreaming? Doesn't your mind believe what it's seeing and, even though it's not reality, it's real to your brain? So, the fact she thought she was dreaming must mean...

She wasn't.

Megan pinched her upper arm. It hurt. You could hurt yourself in your dreams, certainly, but you wouldn't pinch yourself to find out either way. You'd just carry on, oblivious to the truth.

So, she was awake.

The feathers felt as the single one had. Smooth, uninterrupted by individual barbs out of sync with the rest. A single expanse of black. She turned around to try and see them—and the damage done to her back—in the mirror. Because the bathroom was not big enough to hold an adult with wings, she couldn't help but knock over the bottles of shampoo and the cup holding her toothbrush and paste. Once she was facing the other way, she strained to see her reflection.

Barely any skin was visible beneath her new appendages, but what was there looked healthy and unmarked. If Megan turned and arched her body a particular way, she could see where they touched her back. They seemed to simply grow from the flesh, as if they had always been there. No redness or trace of the blood that had been let remained. The wings didn't appear to have forced their way from her insides—they were merely attached.

She tried to flex her muscles to flap the wings, but nothing happened. She raised her arms and brought them down quickly, but nothing happened. She tensed her whole body and released the pent-up energy backwards with a sudden bend down but still, nothing happened.

Outside. She needed to be outside. She could feel the pull of the forest, as if it were eager to see her transformation. Opening the bathroom door, she tried to pass through but the wings prevented her. They caught on the door frame and Megan winced from the blow, feeling it in the actual wing rather than its pull at her back. She expected them to be heavy and weigh her down, making her lean backwards and unable to walk. She could hardly feel any weight, however. They seemed no heavier than the hair on her head. Carefully, she made her way to the front door and stepped out.

Her lungs suddenly felt full, as if bursting with renewed life. Her skin tingled at the touch of the light breeze and was vibrant with the soft heat of the sun. A tear crept from the corner of her eye, eager to feel the same. It slowly traced the contour of her cheek and hung from her chin, not wanting to be separated from the glowing face.

And Megan's face was glowing, visibly. An inner radiance had been ignited, which couldn't be contained by her heart, shining through the flesh. She looked down at her body and could see the glimmer even through her clothes. For the first time in her life, she felt truly alive, the glow burning away the sins of the past and leaving her cleansed and absolved.

She wanted to try and extend the wings again, to move them and feel the obvious power they contained under their dark surface. At the thought, there was a quiet rustle and they opened out, a fluid movement. They were massive, each wing being wider than she was tall, and every feather laid perfectly against the next to create a blanket of black swallowing her gaze.

"My God," she whispered, remembering an old science fiction book she'd once read. "They're full of... nothing!"

Never having been a particularly religious person, Megan was surprised she'd even mentioned His name, but the wings were breathtaking in their faultlessness. Nothing was out of place and, when they moved up and stretched even wider in response to her wish, every feather was immaculately positioned, leaving the illusion of a single unit unbroken.

What was happening? Had she died on the sofa, suffering a heart attack that took her life? Was she now an angel? She expected angel wings to be white rather than black. That's what the stories and films and paintings implied, anyway. White was the colour of purity. White was the colour of all things good because white was the colour that combined all colours. Black... Black was the anti-colour. It represented night. Death. Evil. Red, of course, was evil but Megan looked good in red, she had been told. She would have preferred red wings if she'd had a choice—not evil red, but fashionable red.

She shook her head. Her mind was spinning out of control and she hadn't noticed. Reign it in, she told herself. Think. Focus.

She couldn't be dead. The wings had hurt. She could feel them, even though they were practically weightless. If she were no longer alive, surely she wouldn't feel anything, would she? Certainly not pain. All the pain was meant to be dished out before Death dropped its guillotine and lopped the head off your life. Once you had ventured into the hereafter, pain should be a memory. You'd served your time and could relax on the comfort of a cloud. Perhaps the wings were her way to reach them.

She imagined them flapping, lifting her high. A single thought had been enough to extend them out so the same should make her fly. Nothing happened. She tried again, but still they remained outstretched. Finally, she relaxed and they settled back into their dormant position, folding neatly behind her.

The pull within her, which had brought her outside, was now stronger. Being here wasn't enough. She needed something else. The forest called. She walked forward, hunting for the source of the desire. The tips of the wings dragged across the ground but picked up no dirt, failing to snag on any of the branches or stones that littered the earth. As she crossed the tree line, the unknown urge took a stronger hold. She needed to find something. She didn't know what, but was sure she would recognise it when she saw it. Weaving between the trees, parting the leaves of bushes and lifting rocks, she felt like a dog searching for a ball its master had thrown.

The wings followed, swaying like a canine's tail.

She crouched, scurrying along. She failed to notice that the wings had spread and were carrying her through the trees and undergrowth, making her hover at a speed she wouldn't have been able to attain on foot. She pulled at dense branches to see if the object she was searching for was hidden therein.

It was then she realised where she was. Not standing on the ground. Not bent over, digging in the mud. She was in the air, at least twenty feet up, as still as her heart had suddenly become. The wings were full, curved around her in a semi-circle. They moved in slight twists, as if adjusting themselves to varying air pressure differences. There was no great beat to lift her up or keep her aloft. Only the smallest changes in position showed anything was happening to prevent her from falling to the ground. They appeared to be moving on their own accord with no conscious control from Megan, and the fact that she wasn't influencing them made her reach out and grab the branch she'd been investigating. She clung on, wrapping her arms around it in case the wings decided not to hold her up.

But they did. They held her in place. Gravity seemed to have forgotten she was hanging there and wandered off to play with an apple somewhere. Tentatively, Megan let go of the branch. It took a great effort to remove her hand finally, even though there was no way it could be supporting her but, when she did, her body barely moved. She looked over to a huge oak not far away and, before she could properly form the thought, the wings—her wings—swept back and up, then came down hard, hurling her forward. She brought up her arms and closed her eyes, convinced she would slam into the oak's trunk but stopped within touching distance.

Back to the first tree. Across to another. And another. Up past the treetops to where the world ended and the universe began. Megan didn't have time to process the intention before her wings had already acted upon it. She wanted to test them. At that moment, she didn't care if she were alive or dead. The sensation was exhilarating and she wanted more!

But a hunger gnawed at her insides. She had to find it. It wouldn't let her play. It called to her silently, but assuredly.

Knowing now she could move where she willed with her wings answering her before she'd asked them, she followed the call. Closing her eyes, she let feeling and feather work together without her intervention. She kept her legs together and arms tight by her side. The air tossed her hair back. She felt the touch of leaves and twigs, but none, though she travelled at speed, were harsh enough to hurt her.

Megan suddenly stopped. Opening her eyes, she was at the foot of a willow. Its branches were heavy with all the weeping it had done. She was low enough for her toes to touch the ground if she stretched. She didn't. The feeling of being in the air was too invigorating and she didn't want to lose the thrill. Looking at the willow, she still couldn't see what she needed but the urge was now a rabid dog, straining to be unleashed. She held up her hand and moved it over the surface of the tree, hoping something would trigger the knowledge she was lacking.

It did. A tingle itched herpalm, staying her arm. She could see nothing but lowered her hand to feel theleaves. A cold fire ran up through her muscles and she snatched her hand back,surprised. The feeling hadn't been unpleasant, just... different. She reached outagain. There was no shock this time, but she knew she had what she needed.