Marie found the angel in the Dollar Tree. He was sitting on the shelf between the plastic potholders and the seashells with glitter-glue. He looked up at her as she passed, his metallic wings rattling mournfully. His face was perfect.
She cocked her head to the side and considered. “Shelly, can we use an angel?”
“I dunno,” said her roommate, rooting through the piles of shirts. “I had one when I was little, but he was kind of crappy. Does it have a sword of fiery vengeance?”
“I don’t see one.”
“Sorry,” Marie told the angel. “Maybe next time.”
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