|
|
|
|
|
|
|
How could a figment of her imagination make real soup? |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
The answer blared in her mind. A figment couldn't. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
D.J. grabbed a chair and sat down. The angel looked at her with a smile. ''Hungry? Good. Soup's almost ready. I always liked to cook. I must say it's nice to get back to it." |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
"I told you, dear. Your guardian angel. You can call me Josie. And I know all about you. Your name is" |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Josie glanced at her with a frown. "That's not your real name." |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
"It is now. The only person on earth who knows my real name is my father, and I plan to keep it that way. Just call me D.J." |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
"Whatever you say, dear. Though it's a shame to deny such a beautiful name." |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
"Tough." D.J. took a deep breath. She hated her real name. Just hearing it out loud made her flinch. She turned her gaze back to the angel. "Why do you keep calling me 'dear' like you're an old woman or something. You're younger than I am by the looks of you." |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Josie shrugged, stirring the soup. "Twenty-four when I died." She sighed, a sound full of sadness and pain. "Dying has a way of aging the soul. I've seen things you couldn't imagine." |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
"I bet." D.J. rubbed the bridge of her nose with her fingers. Pain pulsed behind her eyes. It had been one hell of a day, but at least she hadn't lost |
|
|
|
|
|