Salvador comes in with two people: Nick and a stranger. Nick takes a spot by the door like a guard dog, arms crossed. His hood is down, and his combat mask has been traded in for a pale gray one that goes well with his overgrown black hair. Bobby pins are jammed near his temples and forehead to keep loose strands out of his face.
He’s—he’s cute. His dark eyes, sharp brows, the distant but curious tilt of his head…
I dig my thumbnail into my finger, where my engagement ring used to be. I am still betrothed to Theo. I held his hand in front of the church and prayed for the world we were going to build together in Jesus’s name. I promised to bring glory as God’s fiery sword; Theo promised to fight beside me. We were perfect together.
To think like this about anyone else is wrong. No matter what Theo did to me that night.
The stranger says, “Hey, Sal,” so impossibly soft, like Salvador might crumple if xe hears anything other than a whisper. “You doing all right?”
“As all right as I can be,” Salvador says unconvincingly, “with everything.”
“If it’s not too much trouble, can you go check on Alex? Please? I haven’t seen them in a while, and I’m worried.”
Salvador disappears through the heavy wooden doors, and it’s down to three.
The stranger is a doe-eyed and delicate Black girl with deep brown skin dewy in the warmth of the office and long, braided twists decorated with thin golden bands. There isn’t a shred of black in her clothing. I can’t imagine it on her, not with the flowers on her mask and salvaged pastel eyeshadow.
“You have blood on you,” she says.
I pick at a bit of it that’s crusted on my jaw. “I get that a lot.”
“We’ll have to get you a bath, and some extra clothes, and…” She groans. “I’m so sorry. Today’s been hell, I can’t think straight. I’m Erin, and I use she/her pronouns. Sal told me you were excited to meet another trans person, so I hope meeting a second makes your day a little better.” She’s trans. She’s trans too. “What name and pronouns do you want me to use for you?”
I can say whatever I want. And that’s what she’ll call me. No questions asked.
“Benji, short for Benjamin. He/him.” It tastes so sweet that it almost wipes the memory of blood off my tongue. I would have smiled if I didn’t have more important things to worry about. I collect myself. “Are you in charge?”
“I wouldn’t say I’m in charge,” Erin says. “We don’t really do ‘in charge’ here.”
Nick says, “We do.”
“Well, you do. But I don’t. It doesn’t seem right.” Erin brings one of her braids around her front and starts picking at the ends. “Everyone thinks I’m in charge because I volunteered here before That Day, not because I was elected or anything. I’m more of an organizer? I like to think everybody is in charge a little bit—”
“Erin,” Nick says.
“Sorry.” Erin sighs. “We are the closest thing the ALC has to someone in charge, yes.”
Nick says, “And we have a deal for you.”
Shit.
Erin balks. “I wanted to ease into that.”
“No use.” Nick steps away from the door. I counter with a half step back. “Either he accepts or he doesn’t. How we say it doesn’t matter.”
I cut in. “Accept what?”
Nick holds out a tri-folded document from his jacket. The red wax seal is broken, but I would know it anywhere: folded wings at rest.
The Angels.