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don’t need much
sleep.”
    I glance up at the action figures on the
shelf above Gabe’s monitors. When Gabe was in his coma – actually, right after
he flat lined the second time – I came back here and, because I didn’t have the
capacity to do anything else, I rearranged all of his warring action figures. I
took away their weapons, neutralized the fighting stances, and lined them all
up together so that they were one unified, peaceful force.
    Not anymore. The war has resumed. The
Care Bears gang up on Batman. Hulk smashes little green army men. A Jonas
brother lies on his face with Conan proudly standing over him.
    “What happened here?” I ask, nodding
toward the battle.
    “The Care Bears got drunk one night and
killed Cyclops, and that pretty much blew the whole peace treaty,” Gabe says
following my gaze. “Peace never lasts.”
    “A shame,” I say. “Have you eaten?”
    “Yeah. So, I think I’ve found some angel
activity.” Gabe’s fingers dash over his keyboard.
    He’s lying. I can see it in his aura. He
hasn’t eaten. I make my way into the kitchen.
    “I think you’re going to be really
impressed,” Gabe calls after me. “This was some good detective work on my
part.”
    “Noted,” I call back. I went to the
grocery store last night, and now the fridge brims with fresh milk, eggs,
fruits, and vegetables.
    “So what’s the number one difficulty
angels face?” Gabe asks.
    I pull out a Monster Milk protein shake,
break off a banana. The answer to Gabe’s query is instantaneous.
    “Controlling the hunger.” I say this
lightly, like it’s no big deal that losing control and hurting someone is just
my greatest fear ever.
    I throw together a quick PB&J
sandwich.
    “Okay, there’s that,” Gabe admits, “but
since all angels pretty much fail ‘Not Killing People 101’, what I…”
    “Oh really.” I keep my voice steady as I
return from the kitchen and lay the food next to him.
    Gabe glances at it and frowns. “I mean in
general. As a hybrid, you’re the exception, of course.”
    “Of course.” I don’t know where to
stand. Usually, when it comes time for mission download, I lounge on the couch
while Tarren gazes over Gabe’s shoulder and their auras sync up in this way
that totally doesn’t make me jealous at all. But Tarren’s isn’t here, so now
there’s finally room for me to stand at Gabe’s right hand and work through the
data with him. I’ve been promoted to the big leagues, but I linger back. It’s
hard being this close to Gabe, feeling the pull of his aura. Remembering the
taste of it.
    “Getting caught was the answer I was
looking for,” he says. “Angels have to energy suck so many victims to stay
alive that they always have to worry about getting caught.”
    “Which is why so many of them move
around,” I say. A familiar question occurs to me. “Why don’t they just go to
third world countries or something?”
    “Some probably do.” Gabe scratches Sir
Hopsalot behind his floppy ear, “but we can’t track those. We’ve picked up a
few suspected cases in Mexico and Canada, but angels don’t travel well on
planes, so we think the majority of them are still in the states.”
    I stare at the different Google maps
spread across his monitors and marvel again at the complexity of Gabe’s system.
The maps are filled with different-colored pins, white for icicles (confirmed
angel victims), red for possible angel victims, black for angels taken out, and
lots of thick black lines connecting the bodies into patterns.
    “I noticed a cluster of deaths in the
Midwest,” Gabe says. “Missouri and Illinois this past week.”
    “What does this have to do with getting
caught?”
    Gabe flashes a proud grin. “Weather.”
    “Weather?”
    “The Midwest is getting bent over and
spanked by the mother of all ice storms. We’re talking power outages, cancelled
schools, airport pandemonium.”
    “People are stuck in their homes,” I
say.
    “Exactly.” Gabe snaps