“Dying Boy, Eight, Seeks Prayer Answered.”
All the networks covered it: his inoperable brain tumor, his unspoken wish. Debated, it lingered on lips, filling stadiums with candles and Brian’s name.
Last night, the angel came down, unexpectedly glorious. Dozens claimed the first photo of its unnatural symmetry, were brushed away till only we staff remained. It happened quickly, hushed, but still we heard.
“What did he ask for?” My girlfriend asked as I stepped out, shaken.
“He said . . . he didn’t want to die alone.”
The bombs took bloom like hospital roses, the night sky shattered by the threat of wings.