Elena turns to look over her shoulder. The angel goes everywhere with her, like a brand. When she’s too far away Elena feels that distance like a missing tooth or a hole in the heart. Right now, she’s standing in the corner among the pile of partygoers’ shoes. Her hands are folded in front of her, barely peeking out from the hems of her robe’s long sleeves. Her hair and skin are the same silver-white as her robe, and she shines, all of her, like a beacon against the dimmed lights of the townhouse.