“God, if you’re listening…”

It’s the same routine every day: on my knees next to my bed, hands folded against my lips, murmuring a prayer. It’s been this way since I was a kid. My father doesn’t talk to me, my brother doesn’t listen. God doesn’t respond, but who says he’s not helping out?

I don’t know. I’m just clinging to something — the one thing that has stood through millennia time and time again.

A woosh sound from behind me scares the living shit out of me. I quickly rise to my feet, stumbling backwards and hitting the floor. I look up in reverence at the person standing on the other side of the room, the lights flickering above casting a shadow with wings against the far wall. I cough.

“Who the hell are you?” I demand weakly, fear seeping into my voice. Since I came to Stanford, most of the fight has left my body.