At the gate to the fence around the football field Horace stopped. There through the bleachers he could see it, standing in the middle of the field. It was obscured by shadows, but it clearly was a manlike figure, dark, clad in what appeared to be thick, black robes. On its head was a helmet that shone silver, and it carried a huge scimitar that carried the faint glint of moonlight. And the wings. The curve of the wings’ shoulders stood at least two feet above the head; the longest feathers almost touched the ground. The hand that did not grip the sword beckoned to Horace, Come, come. Horace could hear the whispers of many voices in his ear, whispers whispering, For behold, the day cometh, that shall scorch as an oven; whispering whispers, and all the proud, yea, and all that do wickedly, shall be stubble, Come, come. Horace, afraid to do otherwise, stepped forward slowly. Come. The voices whispered whispering, But unto you that fear my name shall the Sun of righteousness arise with healing in his wings, whispered, whisperings, whispered, Come.

Horace heard a car door slam, and, startled, turned to see two cars over by the tennis courts. Out stepped five men, youngish looking, perhaps still in high school. They were white. Horace froze on the twenty-yard line; the specter stood at the fifty-yard line, motioning. Come. Come. Horace saw the two six-packs of beer they put on the top of the car. They snapped the cans out from the plastic loops that held them together and gulped down the beer. Charlie Daniel’s Band blasted on the radio. He could make out only bits and snatches of their conversation:

“You know that ole Ford truck of my daddy’s?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, last night I raced it against a brand new turbo-charged Trans Am. And won.”

“You’s a lying.”

“I be damned if I am.”

“No, Pernel, I believe him. Them new cars ain’t got the pickup it takes to stick with them oldens.”

“Shit.”

In Horace’s ears whispers whispered whispering: Come. Come. The angel merely held out its hand, now, leaning forward. Horace took another step.

Then: “Wait a minute. Do you see something over there?”

“What the hell is that?”

“What?”

Headlights. Horace stood as still as a caught coon.

“A naked nigger.”

“With a gun?”

“What the hell—”

“Get him!”

The dark figure was gone, vanished, it did not take to the wind, its large wings extended, beating the air without mercy. It simply ceased to be there. And there stood Horace, the object of a few things that would not simply be gone.