Darcy didn’t believe in miracles. Never carried a rabbit’s foot. Stepped on cracks all the time.
Then one dark December day, a pair of angel wings mysteriously appeared on her doorstep.
“Must be somebody’s idea of a joke,” she mumbled, taking them inside.
At 1:32, she awoke to the strains of a harp, somewhere off in the distance. Intently, she listened.
At 3:28, a bright beam of light flooded her bedroom. She lay motionless, mesmerized by its beauty.
And then, promptly at 4:37, she took flight.
A short briefing followed. “You have arrived safely, Darcy. You can uncross your fingers now.”