OPENING SCENE - Introduces protagonist, setting, tone
CHAPTER ONE: BETTER WATCH YOUR STEP
I've had a guardian angel save me twice. The first time happened when was I was four years old, and I survived a car wreck that nearly decapitated my mother. I was unbuckled in the backseat playing with a dog-chewed GI Joe, when a dual-axle dump truck crossed the center lane along Harriman’s Curve. The truck struck our station wagon head-on as we rounded the bend. The impact killed my mother but I came away from the accident unscathed––except for a four-inch banded bruise across my chest where my mother had extended her arm to prevent me from hurtling through the windshield.
At my mother’s funeral, Sheriff John Godwin told my Aunt Molly there was no earthly way my mom could have the strength to block my launch from the backseat. Sheriff Godwin had seen many other car accidents during his years in law enforcement. He knew I should have splattered the dashboard or launched through the windshield and imbedded in the truck’s radiator grill.
“It defies physics,” the sheriff said. “Newton’s First Law and all that. A tiny thing like Amelia couldn’t block a football at that speed, let alone a toddler.”
“It is a miracle," Aunt Molly agreed. "Some powerful angels are watching over Renny.”
Growing up I had my doubts. The whole celestial system breaks down when you actually examine it. For example, if an angel really did help my mother, if it gave her the strength to disrupt my flight from the car’s rear seat, why didn’t the damn thing expend a little more effort and save my mother, too? The angel supposedly lent its strength to my mother’s frail arm, but it couldn’t wrap a heavenly wing around my mother and save her from the crushing embrace of the steering wheel? Or better yet, couldn’t the angel have whispered to my mother––before she put the car in gear––that it might be wise to buckle in a hyperactive boy while driving a rural highway frequented by heavy industrial trucks. The half a minute it would have taken to strap me down might have kept us from arriving at Harriman’s Curve at the precise moment the dump truck drifted left of center.
By the time I was fourteen, I started pushing back on my aunt when she mentioned how fortunate I was to still be on this earth.
“Is there a one angel limit per car? Or was it offered as an optional feature on the Ford Country Squire?”
“You’ll regret insulting her when she abandons you,” Aunt Molly said.
I knew my aunt had merged my mother and the angel into one single protective being. “Which she are we talking about? My guardian angel or my mother? I wasn’t aware either one’s service was conditional.”
I was being unfair, but my aunt always mentioned this supposed miracle whenever I disappointed her––which was often––with the implication I was wasting both the guardian angel’s efforts and my mother’s ultimate sacrifice.
Aunt Molly slapped me on the shoulder. “Angels don’t need faith in order for them to do good works. And God doesn’t either.”
“But it helps,” I said.
“Well, it certainly doesn’t hurt.”
The second time an angel saved my life, I was flying with my cousin Bird to basic training in Fort Benning, Georgia. It was the sixth of June in 1986. Our flight from Charlottesville, Virginia to Atlanta had been delayed seven hours due to mechanical issues. And our short flight from Atlanta to Columbus, Georgia was delayed four hours due to thunderstorms. The air traffic controller found a narrow window between storms and sent our plane into the dark black sky. Bird hunched in his seat two rows in front of me, his hands anchored to the armrests, while the plane bucked toward the fort.
About twenty minutes into the flight the co-pilot tried to issue a warning. "We can see on the radar a patch of turbulence just ahead of our flight path," he explained. "Please buckle up. We anticipate––"
He never finished the sentence. A vein of lightning cut across the sky and struck the plane. The cabin went dark and the power seemed to drain away. The plane tipped forward and plummeted toward the ground. I felt my torso lift from the seat, the way a body does during a steep roller coaster fall. I heard wind buffet the plane hull. A woman near the front started praying the "Hail Mary." In my mind, I saw the pilot hammering the starter button, begging the engines to sputter to life. Time is weird in moments like that––it might have been only a few seconds, but it seemed a lifetime. Eventually the turbines roared to life, the wings leveled out, and we continued toward Columbus.
Bird clawed at the seat pocket in front of him. He snatched the air sickness bag and barfed up the cheap dinner he'd scarfed in the airport food court. His paroxysm set off a chain reaction of retching that ensnared half the passengers. When Bird finally emptied his belly, he turned and looked back at me.
"That was insane," he said with a grin. "I hope like hell that wasn't an omen."
"We survived didn't we?" I said. "That's gotta be a good sign."
My mind flashed to my Aunt Molly and her admonition about my guardian angel. Something extraordinary had just happened. We'd fallen from the sky like a leaden Icarus. The plane should have crashed but something had caught us and shocked the engine back to life. I can’t explain it but it felt like something powerful––something beyond chance––had saved us. I also couldn't shake the feeling that this time the rescue came with a warning.
"I saved you a second time," the angel seemed to whisper to me. "Don't waste the opportunity. Third times a charm."
OPENING SCENE - Introduces protagonist, setting, tone CHAPTER ONE: BETTER WATCH YOUR STEP I've had a guardian angel save me twice. The first time happened when was I was four years old, and I survived a car wreck that nearly decapitated my mother. I was unbuckled in the backseat playing with a dog-chewed GI Joe, when a dual-axle dump truck crossed the center lane along Harriman’s Curve. The truck struck our station wagon head-on as we rounded the bend. The impact killed my mother but I came away from the accident unscathed––except for a four-inch banded bruise across my chest where my mother had extended her arm to prevent me from hurtling through the windshield. At my mother’s funeral, Sheriff John Godwin told my Aunt Molly there was no earthly way my mom could have the strength to block my launch from the backseat. Sheriff Godwin had seen many other car accidents during his years in law enforcement. He knew I should have splattered the dashboard or launched through the windshield and imbedded in the truck’s radiator grill. “It defies physics,” the sheriff said. “Newton’s First Law and all that. A tiny thing like Amelia couldn’t block a football at that speed, let alone a toddler.” “It is a miracle," Aunt Molly agreed. "Some powerful angels are watching over Renny.” Growing up I had my doubts. The whole celestial system breaks down when you actually examine it. For example, if an angel really did help my mother, if it gave her the strength to disrupt my flight from the car’s rear seat, why didn’t the damn thing expend a little more effort and save my mother, too? The angel supposedly lent its strength to my mother’s frail arm, but it couldn’t wrap a heavenly wing around my mother and save her from the crushing embrace of the steering wheel? Or better yet, couldn’t the angel have whispered to my mother––before she put the car in gear––that it might be wise to buckle in a hyperactive boy while driving a rural highway frequented by heavy industrial trucks. The half a minute it would have taken to strap me down might have kept us from arriving at Harriman’s Curve at the precise moment the dump truck drifted left of center. By the time I was fourteen, I started pushing back on my aunt when she mentioned how fortunate I was to still be on this earth. “Is there a one angel limit per car? Or was it offered as an optional feature on the Ford Country Squire?” “You’ll regret insulting her when she abandons you,” Aunt Molly said. I knew my aunt had merged my mother and the angel into one single protective being. “Which she are we talking about? My guardian angel or my mother? I wasn’t aware either one’s service was conditional.” I was being unfair, but my aunt always mentioned this supposed miracle whenever I disappointed her––which was often––with the implication I was wasting both the guardian angel’s efforts and my mother’s ultimate sacrifice. Aunt Molly slapped me on the shoulder. “Angels don’t need faith in order for them to do good works. And God doesn’t either.” “But it helps,” I said. “Well, it certainly doesn’t hurt.” The second time an angel saved my life, I was flying with my cousin Bird to basic training in Fort Benning, Georgia. It was the sixth of June in 1986. Our flight from Charlottesville, Virginia to Atlanta had been delayed seven hours due to mechanical issues. And our short flight from Atlanta to Columbus, Georgia was delayed four hours due to thunderstorms. The air traffic controller found a narrow window between storms and sent our plane into the dark black sky. Bird hunched in his seat two rows in front of me, his hands anchored to the armrests, while the plane bucked toward the fort. About twenty minutes into the flight the co-pilot tried to issue a warning. "We can see on the radar a patch of turbulence just ahead of our flight path," he explained. "Please buckle up. We anticipate––" He never finished the sentence. A vein of lightning cut across the sky and struck the plane. The cabin went dark and the power seemed to drain away. The plane tipped forward and plummeted toward the ground. I felt my torso lift from the seat, the way a body does during a steep roller coaster fall. I heard wind buffet the plane hull. A woman near the front started praying the "Hail Mary." In my mind, I saw the pilot hammering the starter button, begging the engines to sputter to life. Time is weird in moments like that––it might have been only a few seconds, but it seemed a lifetime. Eventually the turbines roared to life, the wings leveled out, and we continued toward Columbus. Bird clawed at the seat pocket in front of him. He snatched the air sickness bag and barfed up the cheap dinner he'd scarfed in the airport food court. His paroxysm set off a chain reaction of retching that ensnared half the passengers. When Bird finally emptied his belly, he turned and looked back at me. "That was insane," he said with a grin. "I hope like hell that wasn't an omen." "We survived didn't we?" I said. "That's gotta be a good sign." My mind flashed to my Aunt Molly and her admonition about my guardian angel. Something extraordinary had just happened. We'd fallen from the sky like a leaden Icarus. The plane should have crashed but something had caught us and shocked the engine back to life. I can’t explain it but it felt like something powerful––something beyond chance––had saved us. I also couldn't shake the feeling that this time the rescue came with a warning. "I saved you a second time," the angel seemed to whisper to me. "Don't waste the opportunity. Third times a charm."