“I’ll be right back,” I said softly to the injured angel. The Bonesetter would know what to do. I stood and ran briskly across the field to the road. The Bonesetter lived not far away from my house, in a once-colorful gypsy caravan where he did his work. As a child, I had been terrified of the caravan, partly because the Bonesetter growled and snapped at the village children, but also because of the blood-curdling screams that came from inside when people were having their broken bones set, so they would heal properly.
Breathless, I arrived at the caravan door, and knocked sharply upon it. I knew that the Bonesetter would not answer unless it was an emergency, so I kept knocking until he opened the door and snarled, “What is it you want that you must make such a racket on my door?”
“You must come,” I said, gasping. “It’s hurt.”
“I don’t treat animals,” he said, starting to close the door. I put my foot in the way.
“It’s not an animal,” I said. “It’s an angel.”