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A Little Help
Michael Reitema
It was Sunday, and I was in the garage changing the oil in the Daytona when my wife brought the angels home from the hospital. One was perched on her shoulder, the other peeking out from her purse. They were glowing. Not the fluorescent hum of overhead industrial lighting, but a sort of green tinge.
“Are they sick?” I said, wiping my hands on a shop towel. I leaned over to look closely at the one on her shoulder.
“A little, I think,” she said. “They were with my dad. He died.”
“The doctors let you take them home? You’d think there’d be government restrictions on these things.” The one in the bag sneezed, glitter filling the air in front of its face.
“James,” she said.
I looked up. “Oh! Crap,” I said. “How is your dad, anyway?”
“He’s dead, you fucking prick.” Her eyes were red, the lids heavy and puffy.
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