“How did the date go?” asked Grant. His tone suggested he did not expect an interesting response.

               “It was good,” said Brendan. And that could have been the end of the subject. They were not the kind of friends to demand details were details not offered. But after a short pause during which he successfully slapped a confused early-spring mosquito out of the air, and perhaps prompted to speak on by that very action, Brendan said, “She’s kind of different, though.”

               “Different how?” asked Grant. The men walked side by side down a sidewalk running the length of a row of cute Multioak businesses, many of them with ice cream for sale whether the sale of such be their primary, secondary, or merely tertiary focus. The men had not yet bought ice cream and there had been no discussion of doing so. If either or both were tempted, they kept it to themselves.

               “Well, we got to the restaurant,” said Brendan. “And there was a great parking spot wide open. And I said, ‘Wow, look at the spot! Like it was meant for us.’ And Loretta said, ‘But wouldn’t it be nice if we left it for someone else to enjoy?’ And I laughed and said, ‘Yeah, I guess it would’ and I parked there anyway because I figured she was joking. And she didn’t object so I guess she was joking, although she didn’t laugh or even smile about it.”

“Huh,” said Grant. Maybe he found this kind of interesting after all. Not interesting in itself, perhaps, but maybe he recognized it as the first step on the path to something interesting. Grant’s “huh,” inflected as it was, seemed to encourage Brendan to continue.

“And then inside,” said Brendan. “While we were eating we noticed a couple sitting in a booth a little ways from us and they were both crying. They were holding hands, both hands, and they were hanging their heads down, kind of, and crying quietly. And Loretta said, ‘We should pay for their meal.’ And I said, ‘Hey, yeah, that’s a nice idea.’ But then the conversation just went in a different direction and we didn’t pay for the crying couple’s meal, neither of us did. But then Loretta said, ‘I noticed our server has the name and probably birthdate of what’s probably her daughter tattooed on her arm, I bet she could use some free babysitting, I should offer to babysit her daughter.’ But she didn’t offer. I just paid the check and we left. And then on the way home, we passed another car with a big dent in its door. Just an old car, seemed to be driving fine, but Loretta said, ‘We should try talk to the mayor about implementing a city policy where people with dented car doors can get the dents taken out for free no matter who they are, no matter their age, sex, race, religion, sexual orientation, socioeconomic class, level of education…’ and she was still listing things that wouldn’t prevent someone from getting the dent taken out of their door for free when I interrupted and said, ‘Wow, Loretta, you sure do have a lot of nice ideas.’ And she said, ‘Yes, I do, it’s what my brain does. I have the brain of an angel.’”

Brendan halted his narrative here, waiting at a crosswalk for the light to change so he and Grant could cross to a less cute stretch of businesses, none of which had yet been persuaded to sell ice cream.

“And did she laugh then?” asked Grant.

“Laugh when?” asked Brendan.

“After she said she has the brain of an angel,” said Grant.

The light changed and Brendan strode out into the crosswalk, his feet falling naturally on the horizontal white lines painted on the asphalt. “No,” said Brendan. “She didn’t laugh because she wasn’t joking.”

“She really has the brain of an angel?” asked Grant.

Brendan reached the other sidewalk and paused. “Of course not,” said Brendan. “She wasn’t joking, but she was lying or crazy or speaking figuratively or something.”

“You didn’t ask follow-up questions?” asked Grant.

“No,” said Brendan. “It made me uncomfortable. I didn’t want to talk about it.”

               “But why didn’t she do the nice things she thought of?” asked Grant. “Why didn’t she follow through?”

               “I don’t know,” said Brendan. He walked on and Grant followed his lead. “I dropped her off at home,” said Brendan. “And we later agreed over text that we didn’t want to go on another date. So that’s that.”

               “So it wasn’t good,” said Grant.

               “The date?” said Brendan. “No, the date wasn’t good.”

               “But when I asked you how the date went, you said ‘it was good.’”

               “Yeah, but that was just a preamble to telling you how it actually wasn’t good,” said Brendan.

               “Oh,” said Grant.

               The friends stopped to sit on a bench in front of a comic book store formerly called Comics & More, now called Comics & Much More. And a piece of paper stuck in the front window alerted patrons to another name change on the horizon. In three weeks, provided the new sign was finished by then, the store would become Mostly Not Comics. The paper included a note highlighting the crucial difference between the words “mostly” and “entirely” in an attempt to assuage the fears of the store’s few remaining comic book purchasers.

               “So you wouldn’t mind if I called her?” asked Grant.

               “Called who?” asked Brendan. “Loretta? What for?”

               “To ask her more questions about her brain,” said Grant. “To find out why she thinks she has the brain of an angel. Or why she says that. Or why she said it once, to you.”

               “Be my guest,” said Brendan, fluttering his hand in way that would have in no way indicated the sentiment “be my guest” had it not been accompanied by those very words.

               “Thanks,” said Grant. “Can I have her full name, phone number, home address, workplace address, and any information you might have about her family?”

               “Let’s start with name and number,” said Brendan. He tapped around on his phone screen in search of the desired contact information. “You’re not trying to date her are you?”

               “Date a woman with an angel brain?” asked Grant. “No, of course not. That would never work. Unless…” But he said “unless” very quietly.

               So quietly that Brendan did not comment on it. They were not the kind of friends to acknowledge each other’s cryptic whispers.

               They met in person for the first time in a park near Loretta’s house, although she would not reveal how near. Grant brought a bouquet of flowers which he explained he thought suitable for an angel as Loretta rotated the bouquet in search of a flower she liked, finding none. “But I’m not an angel,” said Loretta.

               “But you are partly,” said Grant.

               “If you had a glass eye, would you like if it if I said you are glass?” asked Loretta.

               “But the brain is the most important part,” said Grant. “Your brain determines your identity. It determines what you’re like.”

               “No it doesn’t,” said Loretta. She set the bouquet down on a non-functional drinking fountain. The flowers looked less angelic in direct sunlight than perhaps they had in the soft incandescent light of the flower shop.

               “Then what does?” asked Grant.

               “I don’t know,” said Loretta. “Not the brain. I know because I have an angel brain and that doesn’t make me an angel. It just means I think about things like an angel would. I have angel ideas.”

               “OK, right,” said Grant. “This is what I was wanting to talk about, actually.”

               “Can we sit in the shade?” asked Loretta. Her short, fine hair was susceptible to every whim of wind. She wore a shirt with an all-over brick-wall print.

               Grant looked around as if for a bench, but Loretta sat down cross-legged in the grass beneath the nearest tree. Grant joined her, lowering himself a touch stiffly.

               “So you have angel thoughts,” said Grant. “Angel ideas.”

               “Yes,” said Loretta. “Especially about nice things to do for people. Or ways that I could sacrifice to help or protect people.”

               “What are angels sacrificing when they help and protect people?” asked Grant.

               “I’m not an angel,” said Loretta. “For me, it would be a sacrifice.”

               “Is that why you don’t do the nice things?” asked Grant. “Is that why you don’t help or protect people?”

               “Kind of,” said Loretta. “My brain never stops with the angelic ideas. It’s not realistic for a non-angel to follow through on all or even most or even a small percentage of them.”

               “So you do follow through on some of them?” asked Grant. “Every once in a while?”

               “Not really,” said Loretta. “It’s not healthy.”

               “But you never have bad ideas?” asked Grant.

               “Bad ideas?” said Loretta. “No, no bad ideas. No plotting or scheming. My only sins are sins of omission, but I guess I have a lot of those. My life is mostly sins of omission. And sometimes I react badly. Just in the moment. But that’s not an idea, that’s just instinct, I guess. Something closer to my will.”

               “OK, yes!” said Grant, shifting from sitting to kneeling. “Yes, OK, your will. It’s different than your thoughts, right? It’s not in your brain? It’s somewhere else?”

               “Yes,” said Loretta. “If it was the same, then I’d do the good things I think of.”

               “Yes, right, yes, OK,” said Grant. He was smiling. He kept almost standing.

               “What’s got you so excited?” asked Loretta, smirking humanly.

               “Because,” said Grant. He stood up. “I have the opposite problem.” He paused, creating a gap which Loretta did not fill. “I have the opposite problem!” he repeated with more force.

               “Bad ideas, good will?” guessed Loretta.

               “OK, well, close,” said Grant. “Maybe not the opposite, exactly. My problem is that I have a good will, but no ideas. I don’t have ideas of bad things to do that I have to reject, but I also don’t have ideas of good things to do that my will would be happy to carry out.”

               “And you think that makes you boyfriend material for me?” asked Loretta.

               “No, no,” said Grant. “This isn’t about that. Unless…” But he said “unless” very quietly.

               “Unless what?” asked Loretta. She was not the kind of woman to let cryptic whispers go unacknowledged.

               “Well, I’m not opposed,” said Grant. “I’m not against that. But no, my main thing is: what if you gave me ideas of good things I could do for people?”

               Loretta looked up, but not at Grant. She looked at the tree branches of a whole range of thicknesses crissing and crossing above her, parceling out only scraps of views of the near-blue sky above them. “You want to act like an angel?” she finally asked.

               “Yes,” said Grant.

               “You want me to help you act like an angel?” asked Loretta.

               “Yes,” said Grant. “Exactly. I hope this doesn’t sound too dramatic but my will yearns for it.”

               “Uh,” said Loretta. “I don’t know.”

               “I’ll pay you,” said Grant. “I’ll pay you a lot.”

               Something in Loretta, whether will or instinct or a variety of deep-seated reflex, made her say, “All right.”

               “When can we start?” asked Grant.

               “Whenever you want,” said Loretta.

               “How about now?” asked Grant. He fished a folded wad of twenty-dollar bills out of his back pocket where they had been waiting, it seemed, for this exact eventuality. “Here,” he said. “How many angelic ideas to perform will this get me?”

               Loretta accepted the money without counting it. “Quite a few,” she said. She leaned forward to look past Grant’s legs to the citizen-dotted park beyond. “There,” she said, pointing to an unassuming man in shorts and a half-buttoned shirt walking around as if unsure in which direction to begin searching for his lost sunglasses.

               “I see him,” said Grant. His hands shook, but not in a way that suggested fear. “What can I do for him?”

               “Give him the flowers you brought for me,” said Loretta.

               Grant did not question these instructions. He did not second guess this angelic idea. He retrieved the bouquet from the drinking fountain and almost jogged across the grass toward the object of his good deed. The man, seeing Grant coming, stopped and took a wary step back, perhaps put off by Grant’s eagerness, the intensity with which he brandished the flowers.

               “Here,” said Grant, extending the bouquet to the man. “I want you to have these flowers.”

               “I don’t want them,” said the man, jamming his hands into the pockets of his shorts as if to prevent them from accepting the flowers against his wishes.

               Grant looked over his shoulder at Loretta. She was watching him serenely. She did not appear troubled by the fact that her idea had not met with immediate success. This seemed to bolster Grant’s resolve and he turned back to the man with the be-pocketed hands. “This isn’t intended as a romantic gesture,” said Grant. “I’m just being nice. I’m being good. I’m giving you the flowers to do whatever you want with. Maybe you know someone who would like to receive them from you? Maybe there’s a grave you’d like to lay them on?”

               The man shook his head. “I have no use for flowers. What made you think I did?”

               “This wasn’t my idea,” said Grant. “I can’t have ideas like this. It came from a much better source than me. It’s hard to explain, but the person who-”

               “Is it her?” asked the man. “That woman sitting over there watching us? The one you were looking at?”

               “Yes,” said Grant. “I didn’t mean it’s hard to explain where she is. I meant it’s hard to explain why I’m confident she knows better than either of us that you should take these flowers.”

               “She knows better than me about what I should do?” asked the man. He sounded affronted, and he probably was. “What’s going on with you, man? Are you trying to impress her? You think offloading these flowers on me is gonna make her fall for you?”

               “No, no, it’s not about that,” said Grant. “Unless…” But he said “unless” very quietly. So quietly that the other man, whether he was the type to acknowledge cryptic whispers or not, could not have heard it.

               “You know what?” said the man. “Here, give me the flowers.” He snatched them from Grant, stamped to the nearest garbage can, which wasn’t very near, and stuffed them inside blossom-side down. He turned back to Grant and performed a sarcastic salute, then stalked off in the opposite direction.

               Grant returned to Loretta looking sheepish. “That didn’t go very well,” he said.

               “What are you talking about?” asked Loretta. Now she was counting the money Grant had paid her.

               “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it,” said Grant. “There’s the idea, there’s the will, but there’s also execution. I didn’t execute your idea well. What good is it to have the idea and the will if I can’t execute?”

               As if sensing Grant might ask for the money back given this revelation, Loretta tucked it away in her purse again. “Why do you think your execution was bad?” she asked.

               “He was upset,” said Grant. “Didn’t you see? He threw the flowers in the trash. He was mad.”

               “I saw the whole thing,” said Loretta. “He loved it. He loved the whole experience. Didn’t you see how satisfied he was when he saluted you? Didn’t you see how invigorated he was? Didn’t you see how purposefully he walked away after he’d been so aimless before?”

               “So that’s what was supposed to happen?” asked Grant. “He was supposed to get mad, throw the flowers away, and walk away, what, feeling like he won? Like he defeated me? That’s it? I gave him a win?”

               Loretta shrugged. “Probably,” she said. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

               “I…yeah…yeah, I guess it does,” said Grant, seeming to warm to the idea of not getting hung up on the outcomes of his good deeds, especially if it meant not having to scrutinize his own good-deed competence too closely.

               “All right,” said Loretta. “I’ve got another one for you. See that lady reading a book on the blanket over there?”

               “Yes,” said Grant.

               “Go offer to give her a free haircut,” said Loretta. “But tell her it has to be right now.”

               “But I don’t know how to cut hair,” said Grant.

               “That’s fine,” said Loretta. “You don’t have scissors and neither does she so you won’t be able to follow through. She’ll just think it’s nice that you offered.”

               “Won’t it kind of seem like a criticism of her current hair?” asked Grant.

               “She won’t take it that way,” said Loretta.

               “How will she take it?” asked Grant.

               “I don’t know,” said Loretta. “Angel brains don’t know the future. But it wouldn’t be a very angelic idea if it was going to hurt her feelings, would it?”

               “That kind of makes sense,” said Grant. “I mean, it makes sense. It does make sense.”

               “Why should it matter if it makes sense to you?” asked Loretta. “I thought the whole point of all this was that your brain can’t do this. Of course my angelic ideas are going to seem strange to you. Right?” Leaning back on her elbows with her legs extended, she shifted her weight to one arm so she could use the other hand to shoo Grant in the direction of the reading woman.

               Apparently convinced, or simply unsure what else to do, Grant traversed the unshaded expanse of grass between himself and the woman. She looked up from her book as he approached. A breeze wafted through her light, shoulder-blade-length hair.

               “Hello,” said Grant. “I’d like to make you an offer.”

               “OK,” said the woman. “What is it?” She sounded less wary than she could have.

               “I’d like to offer to give you a free haircut,” said Grant. “But it has to be right now.”

               “All right,” said the woman. “But you have to use my scissors.” She reached into her bag and produced, after minimal rummaging, a pair of silver hair shears.

               Grant recoiled from the scissors as if the woman had threatened to drive them into his neck.

               “Wait,” said the woman. “Are you left-handed?”

               “No,” said Grant.

               “Oh,” she said. “Never mind.” And she dropped the hair shears back into her bag.

               Back under the tree, Loretta was now fully supine.

               “Did you see that?” asked Grant. “She had scissors.”

               “I told you angel brains don’t know the future,” said Loretta. “But I was right about her not taking offense, wasn’t I?”

               “Yeah, I think so,” said Grant. “But in terms of the actual goodness I accomplished, I mean…”

               “Isn’t it good to be offered a free haircut?” asked Loretta. “And isn’t it good to also not receive that free haircut if it would have most likely turned out to be terrible?”

               “Huh,” said Grant.

               “Exactly,” said Loretta. She rolled onto her side and propped her head on her fist. “So,” she said. “Have you ever noticed how some cars have dents? And how the mayor never implements any policies to help?”

               It was only a matter of time before the recent developments in Grant’s life precipitated what would have otherwise seemed like a chance encounter with Brett, a stubby-limbed, poorly-rested acquaintance with a decade-long fixation on angelology. They crossed paths in the post office doorway, Grant entering as Brett exited.

               “Oh, Brett, I’ve got something to tell you about,” said Grant. “Just real quick. You’ll be really interested in this.” He stepped to the side of the vestibule so as not to obstruct foot traffic.

               “What is it?” asked Brett. His mustache was lopsided, but what does mustache evenness have to do with angel expertise?

               “I met someone who has the brain of an angel,” said Grant. “A woman.”

                “What do you mean?” asked Brett. “What do you mean she has the brain of an angel? Like, in a jar?”

               “No, no,” said Grant. “In her head. Like, instead of her normal human brain, she has an angel brain. She’s been giving me ideas of good things to do since I have the will to carry them out and she doesn’t.”

               “But are you sure?” asked Brett. “What proof do you have?”

               “Well, she told both my friend Brendan and me that she has one,” said Grant. “That she has an angel brain, I mean. And she does have a lot of ideas for good things to do for people. I see no reason to doubt her.”

               “But no halo?” asked Brett.

               “What would that look like?” asked Grant. “I assume it’s not like the cartoons.”

               “It depends on which cartoons you mean,” said Brett. “But you’re right that it’s not a golden ring that hovers above the head. It would be more like a glow emanating from the back and top of the head.”

               “Not that I’ve noticed,” said Grant. “But I’ve only seen her in the daylight. Maybe it would be more obvious at night?”

               “It should be visible during the day, too,” said Brett. “Diminished, yes, but not invisible.”

               “Maybe the halo is just for angels,” said Grant. “Loretta’s not an angel. She just has an angel brain.”

               “But the halo is the result of the natural glow of an angel’s brain,” said Brett. “Although,” he conceded, “the trouble is probably with the skull. The tops and backs of angel skulls are made of some kind of heavenly translucent material which, although covered with beautiful skin and hair, still allows the brain to shine through, thereby producing the famous halo effect. If this friend of yours does indeed have an angel brain, her human skull would be opaque enough to prevent a halo.”

               “Wow,” said Grant. “And all of this is in the Bible?”

               “Of course not,” said Brett. “So how soon would I be able to anesthetize her and drill a tiny, tiny hole through her skull to see if a thin-but-brilliant beam of light issues forth?”

               “Why would we do that?” asked Grant.

               “To confirm that she has an angel brain,” said Brett. “There’s no other way. I’d replace the piece of bone when we’re finished and the hole would heal shut, Grant, this wouldn’t be primitive trepanation.”

               “But she has so many ideas for good deeds to do for people,” said Grant. “She has them all the time. It’s constant.”

               “And they’re good?” asked Brett.

               “The deeds?” asked Grant. “Of course.”

               “No, not the deeds,” said Brett. “The ideas. Are the ideas for the good deeds good ideas?”

               “Yeah, I think so,” said Grant. “I mean, well, I don’t know, that’s not really my, uh, strong suit. Ideas for good deeds, I mean. I leave those to her and then I just do them since I actually want to.”

               “But after she tells you the ideas,” said Brett. “They seem good? They’re inventive, they’re clever, they’re insightful, they’re ingenious?”

               “I don’t know,” said Grant. “That’s, uh, like, I don’t think I’d be able to tell.”

               “So give me an example,” said Brett.

               “Like what?” asked Grant.

               “Like what was the most recent idea she gave you?” asked Brett.

               “OK, well, recently she’s mostly just been having me try to meet with the mayor,” said Grant, his voice betraying a bit of discomfort at the conversation’s trajectory.

               “Meet with the mayor about what?” asked Brett.

               Grant tightened his grip on his car’s key fob, accidentally pressing a button and eliciting a little “I’m locked” honk from the parking lot. “She has this idea for a program where the city would get the dents out of people’s car doors for free.”

               Brett frowned. “And this would only be for…certain people deemed worthy by a committee of some kind?”

               “No,” said Grant. “It would be for everyone.”

               “Everyone within reason, you mean,” said Brett.

               “No,” said Grant. “Everyone.”

               “I see,” said Brett in a voice that suggested he also held certain opinions concerning what he saw. “And you’re, what, dating this woman? In love with her?”

               “No, it’s not about that,” said Grant, stopping short of his habitual cryptically whispered addendum. Whether from fear of Brett hearing or another motive or simply forgetting is open to speculation.

               “Well, sounds like you could use some proof,” said Brett. “Unless you’re fine maybe just doing good deeds thought up by a human pretending to have an angel brain. Which, you know, there’s nothing wrong with that. If the deeds are good, who cares what manner of being thinks them up, right?”

               Grant picked at a sticker stuck to the post office vestibule wall. It was a childish yellow sun but stuck higher than a child could likely reach without assistance. “Maybe I’ll see what she says,” said Grant. “Maybe she’ll be open to it. Maybe she’d like some official confirmation too.”

               Grant still never met with Loretta at her house. He didn’t know her address. Most of her angelic ideas came to him over text message, but she agreed to meet up with him at the park again when he kept insisting on the importance of his desired conversation happening face-to-face. He also had to assure her that he would not ask her on a date, would not confess his love for her or any sort of romantic feelings, and would not bring flowers. Not that he had ever done those things before except for the initial bouquet of flowers. Not that he probably ever would.

               The day was cloudy. Loretta was disinclined to leave the parking lot so she and Grant spoke next to his car.

               “I don’t need confirmation,” said Loretta. “I know my brain is an angel brain. Angel brains know what they are better than human brains.”

               “Well, I don’t really need confirmation either,” said Grant. “I just thought it was an interesting idea.”

               “So why are we meeting to talk about it?” asked Loretta. “Why couldn’t you just text me this?”

               “It seemed like too big of an ask for text,” said Grant.

               “But you said you don’t even care,” said Loretta.

               “Yeah, I don’t,” said Grant. “But my friend Brett really cares. He’s really into angels. I think if he could just see a little bit of glow from your brain, that would be one of the best things to ever happen to him.”

               “Well,” said Loretta. “That gives me an idea of something really good you could do for someone.”

               “What’s that?” asked Grant.

               “You could pay me enough to get me to let your friend poke a hole in my skull,” said Loretta.

               “And you say that would be really good?” asked Grant.

               “Yes,” said Loretta. “Very expensive so very sacrificial.”

               Brett’s house was quiet. But it didn’t feel like his house muffled sound or blocked noise. More like the house generated and dispensed silence. Loretta lay on the operating table in Brett’s spare bedroom wearing the clothes in which she’d arrived except for her shoes, which were paired neatly on the carpet by the door. She was not conscious. Brett had anesthetized her himself. He did not explain how he was qualified to safely do any of this, but Loretta had not been worried. She explained that angel brains are tougher and more resilient than human brains. No one said, “But what if you have a human brain?” They probably knew what she would say: that she didn’t have a human brain because she had an angel brain instead. Brett had shaved a small patch out of the hair on the back of her head with razor.

Grant stood in the corner of the room where Brett had directed him to stay put. The blinds on the windows were closed and the room was lighted only by three incandescent bulbs in the fixture set in the not-quite-center of the ceiling. Brett himself wore a backward gray bathrobe, a droopy surgical mask, and a food-service hairnet. His drill was beautiful, though, the bit of which was long and narrow as a taught string. It gleamed as if a product of heaven itself, a tool of divine realms.

Grant started to ask, “When are you going to-” but before he could finish his question, Brett stepped forward and applied his drill to the exposed portion of Loretta’s scalp. The drill whined at higher and higher pitches for thirty seconds and stopped. Brett pulled the bit out of Loretta’s skull and tapped its hollow tip on his palm until the slimmest possible cylinder of bone slid out. He laid the bone piece with great care on a folded paper towel on top of a nearby dresser where he could retrieve it when it was time to restore Loretta’s skull to the fullness of itself.

Only then did he turn his attention to the portal to the inside of Loretta’s head he had just created.

“What do you see?” asked Grant. He stepped from his corner. “I don’t see anything.”

Brett switched off the lights. Timid sunlight still trickled through the blinds, but in the dimness, Brett turned to the wall and searched, his index finger poised to point. “There,” he said, indicating a spot on the wall just above the level of his head. “Do you see it?”

“No,” said Grant.

“It’s faint,” said Brett, “but it’s there.”

Grant made his way gingerly around Loretta’s inert form, careful not to bump her. He stood next to Brett and squinted up at the miniscule point of light on the off-white paint. “That’s it?” he said. “That’s from her brain? You’re sure that’s not just from a gap in the blinds or something?”

“Yeah,” said Brett. “Watch this.” He placed his hand on Loretta’s head and wiggled it back and forth. “See?” he said. “See how it’s moving on the wall?”

The point of light was moving, bumping around like an indecisive insect. “Yes,” said Grant. “I see it.”

“So, there you have it,” said Brett. “She wasn’t lying. She wasn’t mistaken. She’s got the brain of an angel.”

“But I thought you said the light would be brilliant,” said Grant. “I thought we’d be able to see the beam. You said if she had an angel brain there would be a ‘thin-but-brilliant beam of light.’”

“There is light, though,” said Brett. “And human brains don’t shed light.”

“But why is the light from her brain so hard to see?” asked Grant.

“Well,” said Brett. “I’m not really sure. But if I had to guess, I think it is an angel brain, but it’s kind of a stupid one.”

After Brett replaced the extracted sliver of Loretta’s skull and affixed a bandage over it, he waved a mixture of herbs under her nose that he described as “good for this kind of thing.” And it was, apparently, because Loretta instantly awoke, sitting up on the operating table, taking a moment to recollect what was happening, and hopping down.

“Do you want to know what we saw?” asked Grant.

“I know what you saw,” said Loretta.

“We saw a light,” said Grant.

“I know,” said Loretta.

“You have an angel brain,” said Grant. “The brain of an angel.”

“I know,” said Loretta. She picked up her purse and, since there were no chairs at hand, sat down on the floor to put her shoes back on.

As Brett began to clean up his makeshift operating theater, Grant sidled over to Loretta. As if sensing something new in his consideration of her, Loretta looked up, tying her second shoe by feel alone. “What?” she said.

“Oh, nothing,” said Grant. He offered his hand but Loretta did not take it, rising under her own power. She seemed eager to be on her way. As she walked out of the bedroom and down Brett’s hall lined with golden-framed paintings of oddly-formed angels, Grant followed. At the front door, as Loretta mistakenly locked the unlocked door in her haste to depart, Grant said, “Oh, hey, one more thing before you go.”

Loretta didn’t turn all the way around, but she looked over her shoulder at Grant. She might have been holding her breath.

“I think you’re an amazing woman,” said Grant. “An amazing person. I’ve been fascinated by you since the first time I heard about you. Not just your angel brain, but everything about you. But also, yes, the way you have these ideas for good things to do but not the will, where I have the will but not the ideas, it’s like we were meant to be together, like we complete each other. Isn’t it? Anyway, all this to say, would you be willing to let me take you out for dinner? Any time that works for you, really.”

Loretta took her hand from the doorknob. She traced her fingers across her face, her neck, her collarbone. She looked at the backs of her hands, then her palms. She looked Grant in the face as if searching for the reason for this sudden surge of confidence. She touched the bandage on the back of her head, then, but, if she had a question for Grant, she could not bring herself to ask it.

 Grant smiled, but his smile was too soft. “And I do think your ideas are good. Not just good as in, like, virtuous, but I think they’re smart.”

                “You’re…” Loretta gathered herself and started over. “You’re patronizing me?”

               “No,” said Grant. “No, no, no, no, no. Never.”

               Loretta was out the door. She was gone. The last Grant heard of her was the sound of her denting a car door. And it didn’t take a genius brain, human or angel or otherwise, to guess whose car door she was denting.