I suddenly wish I hadn’t chained him. It’s a good bet that whoever the intruder is, he’s not alone, not at night.

“Hell-ooo,” a man’s voice calls out playfully through the dark. “Anybody home?”

The lobby is carpeted, and I can’t tell how many of them there are until things start to crash from different directions. It sounds like there are at least three of them.

Where’s Mom? Did she have time to run and hide?

I gauge the window. It won’t be easy to break, but if the gang members could do it, I should be able to too. It is certainly large enough for me to hop through. Thank whatever goodness is left in the world that we’re on the ground floor.

I push at the glass, testing the sturdiness of it. It would take time to break this. Plus, the noise would echo throughout the building as I bang repeatedly on the window.

Outside, the gang calls to each other. They hoot and holler, smash and crash. They’re performing for us, making sure we’re good and scared by the time they find us. By the sound of things, there are at least six of them now.

I glance again at the angel. He’s listening, probably figuring out his odds. Being wounded and chained to a metal cart, his chance of outrunning a street gang is about zero.

On the other hand, if the gang is drawn by the noise of the window breaking, they would be fully occupied as soon as they saw the angel. The angel is like the proverbial gold mine and they the lucky miners. Mom and I could get away during the chaos. But then what? The angel can’t tell me where to find Paige if he’s dead.

Maybe the gang will just break a few things, raid the food in the kitchen, and leave.

A woman’s scream pierces the night.

My mother.

Men’s voices shout and tease. They sound entertained, the way a pack of dogs might sound if they’d cornered a cat.

I grab a chair and smash it against the window. It makes a huge bang and flexes, but doesn’t break. I want to make as much of a distraction as I can, hoping the noise will make them forget about my mother. I bang it again. And again. Frantically trying to break the window.

She screams again. Shouts come my way.

The angel grabs his cart and hurls it at the window. Glass explodes in every direction. I cringe but a distant part of my mind is aware that the angel has shifted, using his body to block the shards from hitting me.

Something thumps hard against the locked door of our office. The door rattles but the locks hold.

I grab the cart and pull it up to the window sill, trying to help the angel get out.

The door crashes open, bouncing off the wall with broken hinges.

The angel spares me a quick, hard glance and says, “Run.”