“El Ángel brings me good fortune. The spirit answers my prayers. It listens.” His voice was deep, croaking almost, and there was thick drool dribbling down his chin. He made the sign of the cross with a shriveled hand, joints swollen and stiff like a claw. When he kissed his fingers, gums bared, she saw his teeth—tawny and crisscrossing as if threatening to collapse onto the floor. A moment ago, his grin was gleaming.

“I prayed to El Ángel, and my Maria was spared. Do you know my Maria?”

A patient moaned in the room next door. An alarm buzzed. At a quick clip, a police officer jogged down the hall.

Then a frosty wind blew on Vera’s neck.

Go. Now, her brain ordered.

“Of course,” Vera lied, hugging her chest. Her job was to deliver food pleasantly and with as little interaction as possible.

She turned back to the door and lengthened her stride.

“El Ángel is here for you too.”

Three more steps. Just grab the cart and go.

A baby wailed nearby, rhythmic shrieks in bursts of three, and a heaviness fell in the room, the dust motes gaining density, growing more visible. What was that sweet stench? Like rotting lilies.

“My Maria is waiting for me,” he babbled. “And soon my soul will be rewarded. El Ángel makes it so. You just have to believe.”

Vera understood the intensity of belief. Catholicism flowed with the blood in her veins. Her aunt prayed to saints when she had so much as a flat tire. “St. Eligius, please assist me in my hour of need,” her aunt beseeched when their car broke down outside of IKEA. The woman was right: there was literally a patron saint of mechanics. But you know what else there was? Triple A. Vera called. Guess which one arrived first?

Now, if you asked her aunt, she’d tell you that St. Eligius sent the tow truck. Vera disagreed when it came to flat tires, and definitely when it came to medicine. Whether you prayed to saints or believed in nothing at all, a tumor was a tumor and the treatment was the same. For Vera, spirituality gave her a moral compass; it taught her right from wrong; it made her believe in a world bigger than herself; and it created a hopeful outlook more conducive to healing. But praying to what looked like the Angel of Death? When you’re trying to heal? That seemed counterproductive.

Vera clutched the handle of her cart, the cool metallic feel conjuring an image of her basement doorknob. Why would she think of that?

Her grip tightened.

“Are you ready, Vera?” Mr. Gonzalez’s words clawed their way to her ears.

That couldn’t be him speaking. She turned, eyeing the face that matched the too-deep voice. His pupils were swollen, gobbling every speck of warm honey that normally spilled from his eyes, and his skin was ash gray with inky blue veins spreading like vines.

“It’s glorious!” His tongue lolled. “I’ve seen it. The end! You must not fear death. It’s like fearing peace or harmony. Open your arms and let the warmth of the next life embrace you!” Creamy spit splashed, his lips making the wet smack of a raft hitting a pool. “Be ready, Vera. El Ángel welcomes you. Can you feel it?”