The sound of a car horn went on and on into the night.

There’s a tight corner along the road from Looking Glass Hill to East Glacier, a little south of St. Mary. During the day, it's an easy turn. Even at night, most times, you wouldn't even give it a second thought, although the road nearly bends back on itself.

But Mae hadn't slept well the night before and her and Jonas had been out hiking all day, had gone out to Two Medicine Lake to swim a little, and the day had just gotten away from them. Jonas had had a few cold beers with their picnic dinner, so Mae had said she would drive them back to East Glacier where they were staying. Once they hit the outskirts of town, she would pull over to a gas station, get some coffee and maybe dab her eyes with cold water from a restroom, because, like they always said, it's the last few minutes or the first few minutes of a trip that are the most dangerous, and that's where traffic usually picks up, on the outskirts of town.

It had gotten dark and there were no streetlights along this stretch of the small highway that connected East Glacier to the park, and the road was a two-lane and all she could see was the halo of light from her car and nothing else. It had been like that for most of the drive. Jonas had put a hand on her thigh and given it a light squeeze halfway along the road, and she had been feeling warm and happy at the promise that squeeze communicated. But now he was out cold, snoring against the passenger side window. She should have woken him to talk to her, to keep her up, but why bother? They weren't far from East Glacier now.

Smoke rose from the crumpled, mangled hood of the car, lit from the one headlight still working. The horn was going on and on, as if it had always been on, and would go on until it joined the chorus of trumpets on Judgement Day. There was a rustle of wind, the sound of wings and a rush of dread air around the tangled heap of plastic and steel plowed into a pine just off the curve of the road. Azrael stepped over to the driver's side door.

Remember what you see. Cain had told him.

But what did it matter? What did it matter to remember the faces of the dead, the lives of those crossing over when the flow of those from this world into the next was an endless flood, a cascade of souls flying out over the precipice of their mortal coils into the afterlife beyond that went on and on and on.

It was a female, its red hair tied back in a bun, rebellious wisps of red every which place, matted now with blood. It had green eyes, glassy now, one hand still clasping the wheel, the other limp by her side. She had painted butterflies on her nails, so small and perfect. It must have taken hours.

Was that enough? Would that be enough to please Cain? To please his Father? Who did these details matter to, that he would need to store them up? 

‘Really look’, Cain had said. Azrael leaned in a little closer, and that was when he heard a groan from beside the body of the woman with the butterfly nails.

The living were never really of much interest to Azrael. He would come for them eventually, as he came for all, and so he barely gave it a moment's thought, until the man spoke to him.

"It's you," the man said, his voice was flat, dull. Azrael drew back for a moment. The living hardly ever saw him in his angelic form, as he was now. Those that did tended to shriek in terror and fear, and he had to admit he could appear quite fearsome—his long black wings as sharp as the line between this world and the next, the raiment of Heaven, colored black to suit his purpose, still shone so that it seemed a kind of ultra-violet midnight, his eyes full of the light of the next world, glowing white like a holy flame. But this one sounded unafraid. Beyond fear, really.

"It is," was all Azrael could think to say.

The man swallowed and coughed, as if the swallowing hurt. He had dark hair, and there was a rash of acne high across his cheeks. He was quite young, still too tall for his arms and legs, like an adolescent kitten or puppy. His mouth was a mess of blood. He was missing teeth, and he was barely here in his own haze of pain. "That's good," the man managed to say. "Was hoping you'd be here soon."

Azrael turned back to his work. The man's calm gaze had shaken something in him, but for the moment, he could lose himself in his task. He leaned down and looked into the woman crumpled against the steering wheel.

"Mae," he said into her ear; the stern quiet command. "Mae Susan Holland." At the sound of her full name, the spirit in her, that breath of God that only Angels can see, flickered up. "Mae Susan Holland. It is time."

The spirit stood still. Azrael frowned in the dark. This wasn't, of course, unusual. How many times had a soul wanted to stay, couldn't believe it was their time, couldn't leave, mustn't leave? Far too many. But that accounted for very little. If Death made allowances for one more minute, one more day, one more year, what would happen? And who was he to decide against the plans of God? Azrael leaned in again, over her ear, and called to her spirit once more.

"Mae Susan Holland. It is time."

The spirit was reaching out, reaching out all the same, despite the knell of her hour. And what was it reaching for? Another day at the lake? Another chance to watch her favorite movie? No. The spirit was reaching across the driver's side seat, a hand paler than the light of the moon on a lake. It was reaching over for the man. The man, mouth bloodied, perhaps a little overweight, for whom this woman would defy the will of God for. If only for seconds more.

And then it was over. The will of time and the force of the curtain between life and afterlife was too strong and down it came. And still, the spirit lingered. Still, even as her soul started off along the path to another horizon, it stopped and turned, and wanted to see the man's face if for just one more moment. One moment more. And then, Mae Susan Holland was gone. Death stepped away from the mangled wreck.

"Hey! Hey, where are you going?" the man said. Azrael stopped.

The man was Jonas. Jonas Scott. Jonas Paul Scott, and he was nineteen. He had broken his arm. He had a fractured rib, a puncture. A concussion. He would live. For a time. Azrael turned away.

"I said where are you going?" Jonas shouted as loud as he could. 

Azrael was about to fly into the night and leave the boy there for the ambulance to come, but he stopped. What was it about this boy?

"My work here is done," Azrael said to the boy in the passenger's seat.

"What about me?" Jonas said. "You're here for me too, aren't you? Come on! I'm ready." He looked over at the driver's side, to the shell of what had been Mae Susan Holland. "I'm ready."

And he was! Azrael could see it in him. He could see the spirit in him, that thing that was normally so stubborn, so desperate to cling to the body around it, pushing, straining upwards and out and away, to follow Mae Holland.

What was it about the girl that made this spirit so willing to leave? What did it mean that the boy Jonas would linger on for a few months, would catch pneumonia in the hospital, and pass over happily, willingly? Azrael could see Jonas’s time left on Earth, just like he could see the lives of all things as well as their ends if he cared to. Why did this one give everything up in the end? What was it about this girl?

"I'm sorry," Azrael said, and his voice was low. "I must be gone."

"No! Wait! Come back here!" he heard the boy calling to him as he swept off into the night, flying as fast as a bullet, as quick as the wrong turn of a steering wheel, and made his way back to Ryder, alone on a hill above St. Mary.

There were others that needed him that night; there always were. But he slipped back into his mortal shell, the body of a man with tousled dark hair and troubled eyes, and stroked Ryder's neck. He could, of course, separate himself, allowing his duties to continue on while his consciousness remained here, and he often did happily, gratefully even. But there was something in this mortal skin that seemed to be affecting him. Curiosity stole the day.

He stood on the hilltop with Ryder nudging against his shoulder for a long while, thinking about a woman with red hair, and butterflies on her nails, who was willing to ignore Heaven and Earth for a boy. And a boy who would give up everything in the world, all of the pleasures and wonders of being alive, to be with her. The faintest brush of sunrise was coloring the eastern sky before he took up on his horse, and Azrael started along the long ride home, his head bowed, lost in thought.