The angel smiled as Monica opened her eyes, stroked her hair and folded her in its wings of ice. She sighed and returned the smile, sinking into the soothing warmth. She knew its face; it looked like her dad, but had her husband's brown eyes—or maybe Adam's—but flecked with brilliant green. It spoke to her, a million words and none, a swirling vortex of comfort that held promise but no meaning. She opened her mouth to respond, and water filled her lungs. She jerked upright, coughing and gagging, sloshing cool water over the sides of the tub. "She's awake!" The female voice came from the hallway, nasal New England vowels like fingernails across a chalkboard. Monica gagged and took stock of the tiny bathroom, just large enough to fit a tub, toilet, and sink, all in white as stark as the tile walls. A wood-framed cross-stitch hung above the toilet. "If it's yellow, let it mellow. If it's brown, flush it down." Gross. Water conservation had never been that much of a problem in Tennessee.
