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Angel wanted to believe it, but it was too late in life to change that radically He was selfish and reactionary He had the devil’s own te famous had made it even worse

He’d accepted the truth about hie now What was the point?

He was dying He understood that now, and after To for his next breath, and the next, and the next, waiting for each feeble beat of his heart A surge of loneliness had coed heart He’d wanted someone—anyone—to sit with hiht

He’s not like you, Angel He hurts easily

Her words had co his conscience He’d only ever loved two people in his life—Francis and Madelaine—and he’d hurt both of them

The crazy part was, he’d never reallyof the past, of the tiht years old hiel from their drunken mother, the times Francis had tried futilely to turn her wrath on himself instead … times they’d sat in that old weedy lot beside the trailer park and spun their shaky dreaether

How had he forgotten all that—how had he walked away from it?

Slowly he reached out and picked up the phone, dialing the nu

Angel left aup

Angel was more than half asleep when he heard his door open Quiet footsteps moved into the room

Ah, he thought with relief, Attila the Nurse with his fix

He opened his eyes and saw a tallin the door He had wheat-blond hair and pale skin and blue eyes, and he earing a gray UW sweatshirt and faded Levi’s For a second, Angel had no idea who it was, then he realized

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered “Is that you, Franco?”

“Hi, Angel” It was the same voice after all these years

Angel’s first emotion was pure elation, a quick Thank God that soht of Madelaine, of Francis and Madelaine together, and jealousy started, sudden as a dart, piercing through the joy, ripping a little piece of it away Then there was guilt, acrid and sour, the el’s betrayal and Francis’s hurt He forced a cocky grin “It’s good to see you, bro Glad you had time to stop by”