“Are you all right?” Qaphsiel asked the driver.

“Holy shit. How are you alive?” he replied. He was a young man in a UCLA T-shirt, shorts, and running shoes. “You flew like a fucking mile.”

Qaphsiel dusted himself off. He felt all right and didn’t want to waste any more time. Holding his hands straight out from his sides, he smiled broadly. “See? No damage done.”

The young man’s eyes went wide and he stumbled back into his pancaked car.

“It’s all right. Look. I’m fine,” said Qaphsiel.

“You,” said the young man. The young man pointed with a trembling hand. “You have wings.”

Qaphsiel looked over each shoulder. When he’d skidded on the asphalt he’d torn his Windbreaker to shreds. Now, his wings were sticking out straight from his back.

“Oh, crap.”

The young man got closer. “Are you like a mutant?” he said.

Qaphsiel cleared his throat. “What’s your name?”

“Hansen.”

“No, Hansen. I’m not . . . Well, I’m . . .”

“You’re an X-Man, aren’t you? I knew you were real. I read about it online.” He pointed at Qaphsiel, bouncing up and down excitedly around his wrecked car. “I found this site that proved that all the movies and comics were government propaganda, getting us ready for when they admitted you were real.”

Qaphsiel looked around nervously, worried about other witnesses.

He wanted to agree with Hansen, but that would be lying and against the rules. All he could think to say was “Whatever I am, can you keep my secret?”

Hansen already had his phone out and was snapping pictures of the angel’s exposed wings. “Keep it secret? Sure. No problem.”

Qaphsiel reached out and touched the phone. It emitted a single massive spark and the screen bubbled and melted.

“What did you do, man? My mom is going to kill me.”

“Never lie to an X-Man,” said Qaphsiel. “Especially when you run a stop sign.”

Hansen looked around. “Dude, I’m so sorry. Please don’t call the cops. What can I do to fix things?”

Qaphsiel shrugged out of his torn Windbreaker. Honestly, it felt good to be unfolding his wings, to look and feel like an angel again, even if it was only for a minute. “Do you have a jacket I could borrow?”

Hansen dragged a UCLA letter jacket from the crumpled front seat of his car. He brushed off some broken windshield glass from the front. “That’s my lucky jacket, man. A chick magnet.”

“A chick magnet. Exactly what I’ve been looking for,” said Qaphsiel.

“Keep it, man. It’s yours.”

The angel folded his wings against his back and put on the jacket. It was a little large and gave his wings more room to move around, so at least he got one thing out of the disaster.

“Oh, man,” said Hansen. “No one is going to believe me that I met an X-Man.”