My justifications don’t ease my guilt about leaving her. But I can’t think of a better solution.

I tear my gaze away from my mother and try to focus on my surroundings. I can’t be distracted if we’re all to stay alive.

In front of me, the crowd starts to show a pattern. Women and teen girls, all dressed and made up to the best of their resources, press up against the people in front of them, hoping to get the attention of the guards. Many of the girls are surrounded by people who look like parents or grandparents. The women often stand beside their men, sometimes with children.

The guards shake their heads at virtually everyone who requests entry. Occasionally, a woman, or a group of women refuse to move out of the way after they’ve been turned down, choosing, instead, to beg or break down crying. The angels seem not to care one way or another, but the crowd cares. The mob shoves the offending rejects into itself, mindlessly pushing them back with their shifting and shoving bodies, until the losers are ejected out at the rear of the crowd.

Occasionally, the guards let one through. From what I can tell, the ones let through are always female. While we inch up to the gate, two are admitted.

Both are women dressed in tight dresses and high heels, like me. One of them enters without a backward glance, clicking confidently away down the empty road on the other side of the gate. The other goes hesitantly, turning around to throw kisses at a man and two grubby children gripping the chain link of the fence. They scurry away from the fence when a man with a cattle prod approaches them.

When these women are let through, a group at the edge of the crowd exchanges goods. It takes me a minute to understand that they’re taking bets on who gets in. A bookie points to several women near the guards, then accepts items from the people around him. The bettors are mostly men, but there are women in the group too. Each time a woman is let through, one of the bettors walks away with an armful of goods.

I want to ask what’s going on, why humans want to go into angel territory and why these people camp out here. But I would only prove Raffe right about acting like a little girl asking too many questions. So I tamp down the flood of questions and ask the one that’s operationally relevant.

“What if they don’t let us go through?” I ask, trying not to move my lips.

“They will,” he answers from the dark recesses of the backseat footwell.

“How do you know?”

“Because you have the look they’re looking for.”

“What look is that?”

“Beautiful.” His voice is like a caress from the shadows.