She shrugs. “I’ve been a bunch of times. I wanted to make sure it was okay.” She corrects herself: “He. It’s a boy.”

I stare at the picture, part of me stunned that this is really a tiny person growing inside my friend. It’s grainy, but I can clearly make out a profile, a tiny nose and chin, the bones that make up the baby’s arm. “Are they sure? That it’s a boy?”

“Pretty sure,” she says with a smirk. “I think I’m going to name him Webster.”

“Webster, like after the dictionary? Hmm, I like it.” I hand the picture back to her.

She looks at it for a long moment. “He was sucking his thumb.” She refolds the paper and puts it back in her pocket. The dryer beeps that it’s done, and she starts pulling clothes out and into the basket.

“I’ll take that,” I offer, and she slides the basket over to me.

When we’re back in her room, folding, she suddenly says, “I don’t know how to be a mother. I’m not very … maternal.”

I fold a shirt and lay it across her bed. “My guess is that nobody knows how to be a mother until they become one.”

“He’s going to be so special,” she says softly.

“I know.”

“Phen will know what to do,” she says, like a mantra she’s repeating to herself. “He’ll know how to protect him.”

“I’m sure he will,” I say to reassure her, but I have my doubts about Phen. I’ve seen inside him, and paternal is not a word that springs to mind.

I knock on Christian’s door. He’s sweating when he opens it, wearing a white tank top and sweat pants, a towel slung around his neck. He’s surprised to see me. He wishes I’d called first.

“But you’re not returning my calls,” I say.

His jaw tightens.

“You’re still mad at me, and I think that’s reasonable, considering. But we need to talk.”

He pushes the door open for me, and I move past him into his room. I look immediately in the direction of the TV for Charlie, but he’s not here.

“We need to discuss Angela,” I say.

He doesn’t answer. Involuntarily, it seems, his eyes move to a framed photograph on his dresser, a black-and-white snapshot of a woman swinging a small dark-haired boy up in the air. The picture’s a little blurry, since they’re both in motion, but the boy is unmistakably Christian, Christian at four or five years old, I’m guessing. Christian and his mom. Together. Happy. They’re both laughing. I can almost hear it, looking at them. I can almost feel it. Joy. And it makes me sad to think that he lost her when he was so young. And now Walter, too.

I turn to look at him. He’s standing with his arms crossed over his chest, closed off in every way. “You know, if we’re going to have a conversation, you’re going to have to speak to me. With words, and stuff,” I say.

“What do you want me to say? You ditched me, Clara.”

“I ditched you?” I repeat incredulously. “That’s what you’re mad about? You were the one who wanted to leave.”

“I don’t want to be mad at you about the other thing,” he says, not meeting my eyes. “You can’t control that.”

Sometimes he’s so understanding it bugs me.

“But then you disappeared on me,” he says, and I hear the hurt in his voice. “You left.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, and I mean it.

“Where did you go?” he asks. “I came by your dorm later, to apologize for what I said, or maybe for how I said it, anyway, and Angela said you weren’t back yet.”

I stare up at him, caught.

He closes his eyes and frowns like I am causing him physical pain. “That’s what I thought.”

I wonder if it’ll make him feel any better to know that my conversation with Tucker that night didn’t go much better than my conversation with him.

He opens his eyes. “It might.”

Good grief. Men.

Moving on. “Okay, as much fun as this is, I didn’t come here to talk to you about us,” I tell him. “I came to tell you about Angela.”

“Has she had the baby?” he asks, concerned. “What is she going to do?”

“She hasn’t had the baby,” I say. “Yet. But tomorrow she’s going to talk to Phen about it.”

Christian goes rigid. “She’s going to tell him about the baby?”

“Well, she’s going to tell him that he’s the father. That’s her plan, anyway.”

“Bad idea,” he says, shaking his head like this is the worst idea ever. “She shouldn’t be telling anybody about the seventh. Especially not Phen.”

“He’s not good news,” I admit. “He’s not … happy. But I guess we’ll see. Angela is dead-set on this. I’ll call you tomorrow after I get back.”

His brows draw together. “Wait. You’re going with her?”

“She asked me to go. Well, she told me I was going, and so I am.”

His mouth twists into a disapproving line. “You should stay out of it.”

“It’s her purpose. Besides, Phen’s already met me, so it’s not like I’d be giving anything away, here. I’m going to be there for moral support.”

“No way.” His green eyes are frosty. “It’s too risky. He’s an angel. He could figure out what you are.”

“He’s not evil, technically speaking….”

Christian scoffs. “You heard what your dad said about ambivalent angels. He’s worse than the Black Wings, he said. They don’t have any allegiance to anybody.” He grabs me by the shoulders like he wants to shake some sense into me, but all he says is “We can’t go parading ourselves around in front of ambiguous angels.”

“Ambivalent,” I correct him. “And I was thinking a marching-band uniform and a baton.”

“Don’t joke about this,” he says. “I’m serious.”

I try to step back, but he’s holding me tightly.

“Don’t go,” he says. “Be cautious, for once in your life.”

“Don’t boss me around,” I say, shaking him off.

“Don’t be an idiot.”

“Don’t call me names.” I head for the door.

“Clara, please,” he pleads, his anger dissolving.

I stop.

“All my life … well, all my life since my mom died, my uncle warned me about this exact sort of thing. Don’t reveal yourself, to anyone. Don’t trust anyone.”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t talk to strange angels.” This would not be the best time to tell him about my little chat with Samjeeza this afternoon. And so I don’t. “I’m there in her vision, Christian.”

“You, of all people, should know that things don’t always happen the way they do in the visions,” he says.

That’s a low blow.

“Clara,” he starts in, “I’ve seen you in my vision, too. What if this is what’s going to—?”

I hold up my hand. “I think we’ve talked enough.”

I’m going to be there with Angela tomorrow. Where I’m supposed to be. Two steps behind. No matter how it turns out.

And so it comes to pass that at fifteen minutes to noon, February 13, a day that Angela herself picked to be her destiny, she and I set off from Roble to meet an ambivalent angel. She’s dressed up for the occasion, wearing a purple maternity camisole with lace at the hem, fitted jeans with a band around the belly instead of a zipper, a cream knit sweater that brings out the glow in her skin and the blue tint to her black hair. She’d even put on makeup, not her usual heavy eyeliner and dark lips, but a simple coat of mascara and rose-tinted lip balm. It’s warm weather for February, and Angela’s pink-cheeked and sweating under her layers of clothing, but she moves with a spring in her step that’s surprising for a girl in her condition. She looks healthy and vibrant and beautiful.

“I never paid attention to this part,” she huffs as we walk. “In the visions, I never thought about how I was feeling—physically, I mean. I can’t believe I never noticed this.” She gestures to her ballooning belly. “Or how my center of gravity has shifted way down. Or how I have to pee.”

“Do you want to stop?” I ask. “Find a bathroom?”

She shakes her head. “I can’t be late.”

The closer we get to the steps from her vision the lighter she feels, almost bursting into glory she’s so excited, her skin definitely glowing, her eyes alight with purpose.