He scrambles back when it happens, unprepared for the roar and the rush of the pairs of wings in triplicate as they come snapping into being. He trips over the swing and lands on his ass and has to tear himself back to his feet in startled disbelief.

The reassurances don't help, nothing helps. Be not afraid, Sam, only he is, this is something he's never seen before.

Maybe it is an angel.

No. He pushes back, shoves that thought away. Can't cling to things like that, Sammy. They're little wisps, false hopes, nightlights. They're not real. This isn't real.

"What are you," he says, and he hates the tremble when he says it, the shudder, the specter of doubt pinned behind the words. What is it. What else could it be. What does it have to be.