The dark was full of honeycomb patterns the color of blood. Everything was warm. And soft, too, mostly soft. “What a mess,” one of the angels said, her voice far off but low and rich and very clear. “We should’ve clipped him out of Leon’s,” the other angel said. “They aren’t gonna like this upstairs.” “Must’ve had something in this big pocket here, see? They slashed it for him, getting it out.” “Not all they slashed, sister. Jesus. Here.” The patterns swung and swam as something moved his head. Cool palm against his cheek. “Don’t get any on your shirt,” the first angel said. “Two-a-Day ain’t
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