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plan a wedding?”
    “To reconcile whatever it is that makes you want to postpone our wedding for four months.”
    “Oh, Brent.” She wedged herself into his embrace, pressed against him until she felt his heart. “The world turns slow here, but time goes fast. Blink and it’ll be tomorrow.”
    “I don’t want tomorrow. I want October.”
    “Then, my darling, blink twice.”

I communed with mine own heart, saying, Lo, I am come to great estate, and have gotten more wisdom than all they that have been before me in Jerusalem: yea, my heart had great experience of wisdom and knowledge.
ECCLESIASTES 1:16

    BREATH OF ANGELS
    OCTOBER 14, 2010—8:28 A.M.
    Most days Lynnie likes to be wheeled down to the main room for breakfast. Not that the food is any different there. Cream of Wheat is Cream of Wheat—the same as she’s been eating since she was a little girl. But the main room has one of those big televisions, and watching the Today show on it is like having Matt Lauer life-size right in the room. Oh, how she loves that man. She’s watched that television show every day of its existence, clear back to when they had that monkey, but it didn’t become a part of her life until Matt Lauer took his place behind the desk.
    Today being her birthday, Nurse Betten comes in with one of those shiny silver balloons and a tray covered with a silver dome. She’s not alone, as a choir’s worth of nurses and aides and volunteers come with her. It’s the largest gathering that has ever been in Lynnie’s room, and it appears there are one or two heads that don’t quite make it through the door.
    On Nurse Betten’s cue, they sing, “Happy birthday, Miss Lynn-nnee” and clap their sanitized hands when Lynnie summons the breath to blow out the three candles burning in a bran muffin.
    “Sorry we couldn’t fit the other hundred and four on there,” Nurse Bettensays, but she does point out where a bubbly 107 has been written with black marker on the balloon.
    Apparently some bit of Lynnie’s pleasure at their attention and ingenuity shines through her eyes, because Nurse Betten leans forward and places a soft, broad hand on her shoulder, a touch Lynnie feels clear through her bone. “It’s gonna be a great day for you, Miss Lynnie.”
    One by one, the crowd disperses as pagers beep in pockets and names are called over the static-filled PA speakers. In the end, only one remains, a young girl folded up in the corner chair, gnawing a black-painted thumbnail.
    Lynnie stares. Who are you?
    The girl sits with her body facing the door, her head twisted to watch the clock high on the wall. A full minute goes by. The bran muffin remains untouched, Lynnie’s eyes stay fixed, and the girl’s long, thin neck never moves. The black-painted thumb is given a temporary reprieve.
    Who are you?
    Then an almost-imperceptible move. More like a twitch. Like she is about to turn her head before, with absolute resolution, the thumb is brought back to be punished for whatever crimes it may have committed.
    You’re too old for that.
    Upon continued inspection, Lynnie realizes the girl is actually older than she first thought. Not a girl at all, no more so than Lynnie had been at about the same age. Eighteen, she guesses. Or maybe nineteen. It is so hard to tell these days, with the rap videos and laundry commercials getting everybody’s ages all mixed up. She’s seen those programs, even on Today , how kids are getting so violent, committing crimes once thought reserved for psychopaths and monsters.
    But Lynnie is not without recourse. She presses her own thin, gnarled finger to the call button beside her bed. Minutes later, a voice cracks, “Yes?” on the other end. Lynnie maintains her silent surveillance of the girl, who jumps at the intrusion. She turns just long enough to give a quick flash of her face. Thin it is, and foxlike, with high, narrow cheekbones and narrow eyes that almost disappear behind thick, black outline. Kohl, they used to