“I think of them as the ushers. Like at a play—the people who lead you through the dark to your seat when you come in late. I guess there are ushers at funerals too. But maybe you’d call them angels. They look like angels.” “Do they have wings?” Martin nodded and drank some Blue Moon. “Sure do. But not big beautiful white wings, like on the statues. More like pigeons. Gray, but also sort of iridescent. They’ve got eyes like pigeons too. You know how pigeons have eyes the color of new minted pennies? Like that. Metallic. They wear these cassocks, kinda like Jesuit priests, and there’s soot all
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