“You’ve got a special young lady here,” says Ms. Baxter. I try not to roll my eyes. “I know she’s going to do something remarkable with her life.”

I nod awkwardly, and we get out of there.

“She’s right though, you know, in spite of the cheesy lines,” Mom says as we walk out to the parking lot. “You’re going to do remarkable things.”

“Sure,” I answer. I want to believe her, but I don’t. All I see when I examine my life these days is a messed-up purpose and a not-so-distant future where somebody important to me is going to die.

“You want to drive?” I ask her as a change of topic.

“No, you go ahead.” She digs around in her purse for her big Audrey Hepburn–style sunglasses, which, paired with the scarf she’s wrapped around her head and her long, sleek trench coat, make her look like a movie star.

“So, what’s going on?” she asks. “I feel like something’s bothering you, something more than the college stuff. Which will all work itself out, Clara, not to worry.”

I hate it when she tells me not to worry. It’s usually when I have a pretty darn good reason to worry. It seems like that’s all I can do right now: worry about whose grave I’m going to in this new vision, worry that whoever it is died because of something I did or am supposed to do, worry that the sorrow attacks I’ve been having lately mean that Samjeeza is hanging around just waiting for the perfect moment to kill somebody I love.

“It’s nothing major,” I say.

We get into the car. I slide the key into the ignition. But then I stop.

“Mom, what happened between you and Samjeeza?”

She doesn’t even look rattled by my question, which surprises me. Then she answers it, which floors me even more. “It was a long time ago,” she says. “He and I were . . . friends.”

“You were friends with a Black Wing.”

“I didn’t know he was a Black Wing at first. I thought he was a regular angel.”

I can’t imagine mistaking Samjeeza for a regular angel. Not that I’ve met any regular angels.

“Right. Are you friends with lots of angels?” I ask sarcastically.

“A few.”

“A few,” I repeat. How can she keep blowing my mind like this? I mean, really—she knows a few angels?

“Not many.”

“Angela thinks Samjeeza’s some kind of leader,” I tell her.

“Ah,” Mom says, nodding. “The Book of Enoch?”

“Yeah.”

“That much is true. He was the leader of the Watchers, a long time ago.”

Wow. She is actually telling me this.

“And what do the Watchers do, exactly?” I ask. “Other than, I assume, watch stuff.”

“The Watchers gave up heaven so they could be with human women,” she says.

“I take it God doesn’t dig the idea of angels hooking up with humans.”

“It’s not that God doesn’t like it,” she explains. “It’s that angels don’t live in linear time like you and I do, which makes having a relationship with a human woman nearly impossible, since that would require the angel to stay grounded in the same time for a sustained period.”

Oh. The time stuff again.

“It’s difficult for us to fully understand how they live, moving between the different planes of existence, through space and time. Angels don’t simply sit around on clouds looking down at us. They are constantly at work.”

“Married to the job, huh?” I quip.

A flicker of a smile passes over her face. “Exactly.”

“And the Watchers did what? Quit?”

“Yes. And Samjeeza was the first to put in his two-week notice, so to speak.”

“And then what happened?”

“The Watchers married human women, had children, and for a while, everything was fine. I imagine they felt some sorrow, being away from heaven, but it was manageable. They were happy. But they never truly belonged on earth, and their children lived a long time and kept multiplying, until there were more Nephilim than humans on the earth. Which became a problem.”

I think about Angela’s story from The Book of Enoch. “So God sent the flood,” I deduce.

“Yes,” she says. “And Samjeeza . . .” She stops. Thinks about how much she should tell me. “Samjeeza couldn’t save his family. His children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren, every single one of them drowned.”

No wonder the guy’s pissed.

“That’s when the Watchers joined the other Black Wings and declared war against heaven,” she says.

“The other Black Wings?”

“Satan and his crew.”

I laugh at the idea of Satan having an entourage, even though I know it’s not funny.

“They fight the sovereignty of God and try to ruin heaven’s plans whenever possible,” she explains. “But their desire doesn’t stem from grief, it’s just pure evil, being contrary for their own sakes.”

“Uh-huh. How do you know all this?” I ask her.

“Sam told me.”

“Because you were friends.”

“Yes,” she says. “Once upon a time.”

Still can’t get my head around that one.

“He’s in love with you, you know,” I add, just to see her reaction.

She smoothes her scarf down against her hair. “How do you know?”

“When he touched me I could feel him thinking about you. Well, first he was thinking about me. But after you showed up, he was completely distracted by you. I saw you, in his mind. You looked different. You had short brown hair and”—I stop myself from mentioning the cigarette—“a lot of lipstick. He’s definitely obsessed with you and your lipstick.”

Her hand rises like she wants to touch her neck where, if she was a normal person, there might still be bruises from Samjeeza choking her. “Lucky me,” she says.

I shudder, remembering the feeling of his cold hands moving underneath my shirt.

“If you hadn’t shown up when you did, he would have . . .” I can’t finish the sentence.

She frowns. “Rape is not a Black Wing’s style. They prefer seduction. They want to win you over to their side.”

“What about Angela’s mom?” I point out. “She was raped.”

“Yes, so she says.”

“You think that’s not true?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t there.”

“Well, I think Samjeeza was planning on it with me,” I tell her. “He didn’t exactly try to charm me.”

“He was behaving strangely that day,” she says. “The way he talked, all melodrama and clichés, like he was playing a part. It wasn’t like him. It was as if he was trying to prove something.”

“But nobody was watching him but us.”

“Somebody was,” she says cryptically. “Somebody always is.”

Oh. I guess she means God. Always watching. Gulp.

Her mouth twists into a pained line. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

“Me too.”

“Anyway,” she says like she’s relieved to be changing the subject, “I thought we could go into town for some ice cream, maybe do some shopping.”

“Can’t,” I tell her. “I’m supposed to go fishing with Tucker this afternoon.”

She tries to hide her disappointment. “Oh.”

“I’ve hardly had a chance to see him lately, because he got a job at Flat Creek Saddle Shop and he’s been working all these hours. . . .”

“No, I understand,” she says. “You should go be with him.”

I wonder if she cares about Tucker at all now. If she still disapproves.

“Maybe we can do something this weekend?”

“Sure,” she agrees. “I would love that.”

“Okay.”

Then there’s nothing to do but turn the key in the ignition, put the car in gear, and drive home.

There’s something magical about the way my head fits into the crook of Tucker’s neck. I lie there, breathe in his scent, which is a delightful mix of earth and hay and his own brand of man smell and aftershave, a touch of bug spray thrown in there, and for a minute all my worries evaporate. It’s just him and me, the lull of the water gently rocking the boat, particles of dust floating around in the warm air. I don’t know what heaven’s like, aside from the sense of brightness that Mom described for me once, but if I got to choose my heaven, this would be it. On the lake with Tucker. I’ll take the mosquitoes and everything.