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His feet moved before the barked command actually made it to his brain. He stood and watched as she dragged her suitcase the remaining twenty-two feet, six and three-quarter inches to the bus station door. Nothing else moved for as far as he could see and the only sound he could hear was the rasp of cheap vinyl against concrete.

At the door, she paused, and turned.“Well?” she demanded.

Higher knowledge seemed at a loss.

“Get over here and open the door.”

“But I thought…”

“And while you were thinking, did you think about how a woman of my age could manage a big heavy suitcase and a door?”

“Uh…”

“No. You didn’t. The world has gone to hell in a handcart since they canceledBowling for Dollars.”

Propelled by her glare, he ran for the door and hauled it open. Then, a bit at a loss, he followed her inside.

She shifted her grip on her purse.“Now where are you going?”

He didn’t know. “With you?”

“Try again.” She squinted up at the board. “Only other bus leaving this morning’s going to Toronto.”

“I should go to Toronto?”

“Why should I care where you go?” Grabbing her suitcase, she began backing across the room, keeping him locked in a suspicious glare.

“Fine.” Edna Grey might not need his help, but in a city of three million, someone would. He’d go there and he’d help people and he’d finally figure out just what he was supposed to be doing, and when he’d done it he’d go back to the light and demand to know just what they thought they were doing sending him into the world without instructions. Well, maybe not demand. Ask.

Politely.

But for now…

The bus station flickered twice, then came back into focus.

Why wasn’t he in Toronto? Wanting to be in Toronto should have put him there, but something seemed to be holding him in place. It felt as though he was trying to drag an enormous weight…

And then he realized.

“Oh, come on, that’s a couple of ounces, tops!” A little embarrassed by the way his voice echoed against six different types of tile, Samuel looked up to see Edna Grey staring at him, wide-eyed, one mittened hand clutching her chest. While he watched, she toppled slowly to the ground.

“Mrs. Grey?” He landed on his knees beside her. “Mrs. Grey, what’s wrong?”

“Heart…” Her voice sounded like crinkling tissue paper.

“Hey, don’t do this, you’re not supposed to die now!” Reaching out, he spread the fingers of his right hand an inch above the apex of her bosom, spent a moment stopping his mind from repeating the word bosom over and over for no good reason, then asked himself just what exactly he thought he was doing.

I’m helping. It’s her heart.

Were hearts supposed to flutter like a gas pump straining at an empty tank?

He laid his left hand against his own chest.

Apparently not.

So?

Was this the message he was here to deliver?

A pulse of light moved from his hand to her heart and he felt an inexplicable urge to yell,“Clear!” Somehow, he resisted. Her heart stopped fluttering, paused, found a new rhythm, and began beating strongly once again.

“Mrs. Grey?” Feeling a little dizzy, Samuel leaned forward and peered into her face. “Can you hear me?”

“What? I’m old, so I’m deaf?”

“Uh, no.” Maybe he should loosen her clothing.

She smacked his hand away.“What happened?”

“You had a heart attack.”

Planting both palms against the floor, she pushed herself into a sitting position.“Well, are you surprised? You were there, then you weren’t there, then you were there again.”

“You saw that?”

“What? I’m old, so I’m blind?”

“Uh, no.”

“And why does the whole room smell of pine?”

“I think that’s the stuff they use on the floor.”

“Or some cat’s been pissing in the corner.” Spotting the startled face of the bus station attendant peering over the ticket counter, her eyes narrowed. “And just what are you looking at, Missy? Good thing I didn’t have to wait for her help,” she muttered, “I’d be lying here until New Year’s.”

“Mrs. Grey? Do you want to stand up?”

“No. I’d rather sit here in a puddle of slush.”

About to take her hand, Samuel sat back on his heels.“Uh, okay.”

Muttering under her breath, she grabbed his shoulder and hauled herself to her feet.“So, what were you doing?” she demanded as he stood. “Here you are, here you aren’t—I have a weak heart, you know.”

“Had,” he corrected helpfully. “I fixed it.”

“You fixed it all right. Now answer the question: What were you doing?”

“I was trying to go to Toronto. But nothing happened.” His shoulders slumped.

“You really are an angel?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“So, what’s the message?”

“Well, uh, you see, it’s like this, I uh…”

One foot tapped impatiently.“Angels are the messengers of God. So, what’s the message? Is it Armageddon?”

He checked his pockets. Still no messages.“I’m pretty sure it’s not Armageddon.”

“Pretty sure?” She seemed disappointed.

“Actually, I’m beginning to think I’m, you know, not that kind of an angel.”

“Oh. Then what kind of an angel are you?”

“Just, uh, the kind that…”

“The kind that pops in and out any where they want? Giving poor, helpless grandmothers heart attacks?”

“I didn’t do it on purpose.”