The Meadow 45 but in the biblical sense. Awesome, huge, a tidal wave of a thought. But that isn’t what I do. Instead I leave my spot in the window of the home that abuts his property. I’ve disabled both security systems. Methodical, I pack up my rifle in its guitar case, leaving it by the window for later retrieval. I slip outside, over to the shared fence. I scale the fence in one graceful movement. I’m breaking protocol in so many ways it makes me breathless. I slide through the undergrowth on my belly until I reach the bathroom window I unlocked earlier in the day. I slip through like a cat. I keep to the shadows, make my way through his open-plan, multileveled home, every inch of which I’ve memorized. Presently I’m in darkness next to the kitchen. He’s still standing motionless at the window, looking toward where I had been standing. I watch him. He speaks out of nowhere. “Are you going to do it?” I don’t move but I’m surprised. “I know who you are,” he says. “I have people too. I know about SafeGuard.” I pause, then I say, “Who am I?” I throw my voice a bit to my right. I see him smile in the window. “An angel,” he says. He turns to face me. He can’t see me—he’s looking at the column next to me. I hold a throwing knife in my right hand. My left claw is curled just below my stomach. “I know I’m toast,” he says. “I won’t stop you. You’re an angel. Here to deliver me.” “Deliver you where?” I say. “Extinction. Or—you know—wherever I’m going.” “That’s what you want?” I say. “You want that?” He holds his arms out. “Yes,” he says, certain. Then he stops to consider. When he speaks again his tone is different, halting, exploratory. “I’ve never understood what’s wrong with me,” he
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