Free Eternal by Cynthia Leitich Smith

wings and slipped status, he can somehow sense what I am. He’s the first adult human to do so. It’s a rare ability, even among the pure of heart. Little kids are the most likely to spot us. “Father . . . ?”
    “Ramos.” The priest blinks twice and runs a hand through his hair. Regaining his composure, Father Ramos reaches into his jacket pocket, slips a hundred-dollar bill into my hand, and grasps it with both of his. “Take a cab. Tell the driver to drop you off a block away. If he balks, offer a fifty-percent tip up front.” He pauses. “You’re going dressed like that?”
    Before leaving the Amtrak car, I showered and changed into jeans and a long-sleeved, hooded Bulls sweatshirt. “I guess.”
    Father Ramos removes the cross from around his neck. He drapes its long chain around mine. “Take this.”
    Only one kind of monster is well known for fearing religious symbols. The kind I want to think about least, the kind I hate most.
    The priest also hands me a business card.
Holy Cross Catholic Church. Winnetka, Illinois.
“In case you need any assistance,” he says. “Or a place to stay or . . . or a nice fruit platter?”
    I can’t help grinning slightly. A fruit platter doesn’t sound bad.
    Father Ramos is flustered. He didn’t board the El train this evening with the idea that he’d have a chat with a guardian angel.
    I consider inviting him along on my mission, but I wouldn’t want anything to happen to him. I don’t trust myself to keep him safe. But the priest will pray for me. I can tell from his voice. The way he suddenly looks ten years younger than when I first saw him. It’s good to know I have at least one friend in this town.
    The train stops. Its doors slide open, and the priest is lost among the changeover of passengers. Exiting myself, I don’t spot him on the snowy platform.
    But there is a girl about Miranda’s height, build, and age, with almost-black hair, carrying a flute case. Her gaze lingers on my face as she walks by. I almost say something — which would be nuts, considering — but it’s not her. When she stifles a yawn, her breath puffs warm. Alive. But they could be half sisters or first cousins.
    Miranda. It’s not the first time I’ve noticed a similar-looking girl. There was that one at the runaway shelter, a closer match. Another at a Sixth Street bar in Austin. My “date” for the night bitched me out for staring.
    It’s below freezing and sleeting. Taking the stairs from the train station to Cermak, I wish Josh had spotted me a pair of boots. My Nikes are already soaked through. That morning, he left me only ten bucks in the Amtrak sleeper cabin.
    But now I have the money from the priest, too. No way does a cab across town cost that much. Even with a massive tip. And I’m hungry again. I ate lunch on the train, a hot dog and fries. But they didn’t offer seconds, and that was hours ago. One thing about having a corporeal body: you have to feed it on a pretty regular basis.
    I halfheartedly jog the short distance down the sidewalk into Chinatown, passing the neighborhood parking lot and new gold-and-green Nine Dragon Wall.
    From what I can see, the place hasn’t changed much in the last twenty years or so. Only a handful of the low-lying brick buildings feature an architectural nod to the ethnic flavor of the neighborhood. That mostly comes through in the Asian-style lettering on the signs and the ornate red gate.
    I duck into a nearby restaurant. It’s the kind of place that has black lacquer furniture; plastic-covered red seats; drinks with names like Scorpion, Fog Cutter, and Zombie; and the Great Wall depicted in a cross-stitched mural.
    The grandmother behind the desk rises from sliding a phone book onto a low shelf. “May I help you?” she asks with a slight accent. “Party of one?”
    I order four egg rolls to go. “Where’s the men’s room?”
    Looking up from the notepad, the lady smiles, smoothes her gray-streaked hair, and shows me to the