Henry and Brooke pass two angels conferring over their computer monitors while the third in their triumvirate whispers softly into a microphone.
“No, no,” one angel says to the other. “You can’t have them meet yet. They’re supposed to have a child that’s going to be the Senator of Tennessee in 2067, and they can’t conceive her until after the accident, which can’t happen for another two years.”
Brooke looks at Henry in surprise. If she were one of your teenagers, I believe she would be saying, “WTF?”
Before Henry can say anything, the second angel answers the first: “Okay, let’s send this schlub along. That’ll keep her occupied for a little while.”
The first angel appears shocked. “Schlub?”
“Okay, okay,” the second angel replies, somewhat abashed, “a drop of divinity cleverly disguised as a schlub.”
Brooke again turns to Henry. “They do this while their assignment sleeps?”
“Right. Their assignment is obviously a late sleeper. Could be a hooker.” And then, to the surprise on her face, “Not to worry, it’s all good. It’s all a divine path.”
He leads Brooke past a closed office door. RAINDANCERS, the elaborate sign announces.
“Oh,” Henry shakes his head, “you’d be amazed at how many humans want to rain on their own parade, keep worrying about nonsense, look at the bad side of anything. Raindancers only perform when asked, but they are in hot demand. You want to be extra busy, sign up for Raindancing.” And to her still-surprised expression, he adds, “It’s all good.”
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