Skis glide over jump; I soar for seven glorious seconds before gravity reminds me I can’t fly. It’s not fair: other half-angels have wings. Father claims I haven’t earned mine even though I heal people every week.
With a sigh, I scan the hill for my cousin and find her racing towards a tree.
I shout. She ignores me. I speed to her, tackling her into a soft snowbank seconds before impact.
When she doesn’t thank me, I read her mind. She’s disappointed, wishing the tree put her out of her misery.
Healing is more than mending bones, whispers Father’s voice.