“Is it necessary to keep him strapped to the seats?” President asked. The angel’s eyes had adjusted to the light now and he could make out his shape.

“I’m afraid so,” Mudman answered, “For his safety. And ours.”

The angel was confused. How was this keeping them safe? It certainly wasn’t making him feel any better.

As the angel’s consciousness returned, so did the pain. His wing burnt like fire, but his brain was pounding inside his skull, threatening to force its way out. With the pain came only one distinct memory. The memory of the fall. Nothing else. It was like someone had taken an eraser to his mind. He didn’t even know his name.

President stepped closer to the angel. He could tell the man was getting old. He had to be at least sixty. His hair was fading from brown to gray and he had wrinkles around his green eyes.

The green eyes looked questioningly into the angel’s golden ones. Who are you? What are you? They seemed to ask.

“I wish I knew, myself,” said the angel.