She opened her eyes to see a man down on one knee beside her. And, hello! Not bad for an old guy. He looked to be in his mid-thirties and had great dark eyes, brown hair touched with gray, and smile lines bracketing his mouth. His shoulders, in the dark suit and greatcoat he wore, were impossibly broad. His thighs were almost as big around as her waist, and he was crouching over her like a dark angel. It was a little disturbing, but kind of cool.

“Good morning,” he said. His voice was deep, pleasant. He probably worked in radio. “Are you all right?”

“Sure,” she said, but she groaned when she sat up. “I can’t believe I fell asleep up here.” She brushed gravel off her cheek and looked around. The wolf was gone, thank goodness. “Oh, shit! I never got to—never mind.”

“What are you doing up here?”

“Mind your own beeswax,” she said. “You can go now.”

“You don’t seem suicidal,” he commented.

“I’m not!”

“Then why are you up on a roof?”

“You’ll laugh at me.”

“Doubtful.”

“Also, it’s none of your business.”

“Well,” he said pleasantly, “I’m not leaving you up here by yourself. So you might as well tell me.”

“Dammit!” What was going on? First the gang decided to be dumb (dumber than usual, anyway), then a weird-ass giant wolf tormented her, and now this guy. God hated her is what it was. “Fine, I’ll tell. I’m pretty sure I can fly. I’ve felt I could all my life. It sort of—runs in my family. Except my family’s all dead, so I never really knew for sure for sure, y’know? So anyway, last night I finally screwed up the courage to try, but I couldn’t because—never mind, you’ll think I’m a nut-job. More so than now, I mean. Anyway, that’s why I’m up here. Not to die. To fly.”

“Mmmm.” He put a big hand on her face and peered at her pupils. “Well, you’re not on drugs. That’s something.”

“I quit doing drugs when I was seventeen,” she snapped and batted his hand away. “I’ve been clean for ages.”

“And you’re not terminally ill,” he finished.

“How d’you know that?”

“I’m a doctor. It’s my job to know.”

“What, did you do a blood test in my sleep?”

He ignored that. “What’s your name?”

“Why do you care?”

He looked at her soberly. “I care.”

Weird. But cool. Okay, fine. “It’s Crescent.”

“That’s it?”

“No, I have a last name, but I’m not telling.”

“Why? Are you a fugitive?”

“I wish. It’s just that everybody laughs. You’ll laugh.”

He raised his hand, palm out. “I promise I won’t laugh.”

“It’s Muhn.”

“Crescent Moon?”

“The h,” she said with as much dignity as she could, “is silent.”