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it—out!”
    Poor Mrs. Krackau looked at me as though I’d gone insane, and maybe I had. The thought that Hailey died for some inexplicable “plan” made me livid, and thinking of her as an angel didn’t help a bit. It felt like an insult, actually.
    But tonight I’m determined, and if I have to speak of angels, so be it. “Don’t be afraid, Selwyn. We’ll be protected by angels, I’m sure. If there’s evil out there, there’s good, too, and good always wins.” I realize how silly I sound and, embarrassed for myself, reach for the door. “Oh, fuck it. I’ll go alone.”
    I start to climb out of the car but then hear him say, “I’m an idiot.”
    I turn and make a face that says,
Well, if you say so.
    Selwyn doesn’t smile, though, and instead he shifts his gaze beyond the black gate.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œIt’s taken me this long to realize why we’re here.” His face goes soft. “I’m sorry.”
    â€œThere’s no need to apologize. I should apologize. It’s beyond strange to bring you here in the first place. But I feel like being here. I come here at night sometimes. I know it’s weird, but it’s what I need right now. I just thought I’d like to invite you, but if you don’t want to, I understand. I do.”
    He takes a breath. “I’d be honored. Besides,” he adds, taking the keys out of the ignition, “Momma also said a person should stand up to his fears.”
    â€œI love your momma,” I say, my smile growing big and wide.
    He looks at me a beat, his eyes round and shiny. “That smile. That smile.”
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    S elwyn holds the flashlight as I guide us through the cemetery. In hopes of making him feel less afraid, I ramble on about how pretty the cemetery is during the day—how it’s more like a park with all the great views, the duck pond and boysenberry bushes, the people who come here to walk their dogs, but he remains dubious at best and mutters a sarcastic “Oh yeah, it’s
exactly
like a park.”
    To keep him focused, and because I don’t know a thing about him, I ask him to tell me something about himself.
    â€œWell,” he says, ready to settle into a good story, “when I was a boy of about eight or nine and growing up in Alabama—”
    I’m exhausted already. “Oh God, never mind.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI’m just not in the mood to hear about the South—those willow trees and june bugs, Southern witticisms.” I shiver dramatically.
    â€œGirl, you have more attitude than ten women dressed in too-tight shoes.”
    I give him a look that says,
See what I mean?
    We finally reach the top of the hill we’ve been climbing for what feels like several hours. We stare silently at land and sky spread out before us, the bright expanse of city lights, and the bay and both the Golden Gate and Bay Bridge far off in the distance.
    We stand without saying a word until Selwyn murmurs, “My, my, what a beautiful view. It’s so peaceful.”
    I turn and wave my hands in the air.
“Boo!”
    â€œEverybody’s a comedian,” he mutters.
    After a few minutes of gazing at the view, we continue to walk until we reach a crest.
    â€œThere it is,” I say, pointing to Hailey’s tombstone.
    I gaze down at her name and the words BELOVED DAUGHTER . I then find myself going down on my knees in the wet grass.
    Selwyn soon joins me, resting an arm around my back. “Listen—”
    I know exactly where he’s headed—those strands of familiar platitudes—and interrupt him before he can start. “No, actually, I don’t want to listen. I don’t want to hear anything even remotely”—I make imaginary quotes in the air—“supportive or understanding.
I don’t want to hear how things will get better, or