A mob hit man, who decides to go straight, is the intended victim of a hit. The hit goes wrong, and an innocent girl is badly injured by mistake. He feels guilty — if he hadn't been where he was, she wouldn't be in a coma in the hospital. He ducks another hit attempt, and finds himself in Madam Zelda's shop. She gives him a medallion to protect the girl's life. When he's attacked again, the power of the medallion works, and he wakes up.

This story is dedicate to a friend, Light of Fury. She's not writing, but she was keeping in touch, until she got some new adventure / distraction. I enjoyed working with her on a wide variety of stories, and conversing off and on. She made me think about my preconceived notions. (For an old fart, Pink isn't a bad singer!) I miss her, and wish her peace on whatever she does.

Note: There are some theological references to Heaven and Hell (mostly Heaven) in this story. There is also some reference to the Catholic faith, because a church plays a vital part of the story, and the girl's family isn't Catholic. If you're offended, I apologize. It's just a story. I hope you enjoy it. Also please note that 'conversations' with Tina are all italicized in an attempt to make them more distictive; otherwise, it could get confusion. If I missed one, please PM me and I'll fix it.

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I remember it like it was yesterday, even though Madam Zelda assured me that the memories would fade with time. Perhaps it's my punishment — to forever recall all the wicked things I'd done before I got _her_ life, so that I'm never tempted to repeat the mistakes of my past life.

I was Antonio Martinelli, a bully. That simple, with no quibbles. I'd always been a bully. A few good beatings, and word spread through the school — do what Tony says, or else. I didn't get good grades, but I could intimidate almost anyone to do my homework for me, which kept me from flunking. Even Father Jerome couldn't get me to stop, which eventually led him to ban me from receiving the sacraments because I had no intention of ever stopping bullying people. That hit my mama really hard — I think that's what triggered her heart trouble. I was a loner, amoral, and getting my kicks out of hurting people. When my mama passed, it made my bullying get worse, because, even though I couldn't admit it, I desperately needed her, and she was no longer there for me.

When I graduated from high school, there weren't many options open to me. I suppose I could have gone to work as a Teamster, like my pop, but the thought of taking orders from some pretty-boy manager really set me off. One afternoon, two men came to see me. The older one looked a lot like my pop — older, white-haired, and average build. But there was something in his eyes —an intensity that I'd never seen before. The other one was burly — even larger than I was.

"What do you want?" I demanded, never having learned pleasantries or etiquette. I had no need for such silliness.

The older man laughed, while the burly man seemed to stiffen, as if my words were a challenge to him.

"I'd like to offer you a job," the older man said. "Something that's suited to your ... unique talents."

"Bullshit!" I exclaimed.

The man laughed. "I strongly suggest that you don't make Rocco mad," he said. "And I wouldn't advise threatening me, either." He'd read my thoughts. "Rocco hasn't killed anyone in a couple of weeks, and he's getting itchy."

There was a spine-tingling sensation when he mentioned killing, but I ignored it. I was busy sizing up the guy named Rocco. His face had a couple of scars, and his eyes were narrow slits atop a neutral expression that seemed to announce his anger at anything that crossed him. I didn't doubt but that he _had_ killed someone. I ignored, the sensation. Hey, I never said that good judgment was my strong suit. "What kind of offer?" It sounded like something out of a bad gangster movie.

"I need some help with some ... problems," the older man said. "Sometimes, people don't listen to reason. Then I have to ... to persuade them to ... cooperate."

That started me on a career path that was right up my alley — an enforcer for a minor 'Don' named Franco Scarletti. Mister S, as we called him, was a pretty easy-going guy — around us. With his business, though, he was ruthless. Funny thing was, the cops and the DA never bothered us. I always figured that a few of them were on the payroll. Even the newspapers seemed to be on our side. If they had known that we were just protecting _our_ business interests from competition, and that Mr. S was involved — indirectly — in all drug distribution in his territory, the media would have sung a different tune.

I started to think, for maybe the first time in my life, when Rocco, who'd been as close to a friend as I'd ever had, took a bullet in a war with a drug gang that was moving in on Mr. S's territory. I was with him when he breathed his last. The strange thing was, he looked almost peaceful when he lay dying. And his final words to me were also cryptic. "If you want to last in this business, take notes. Lots of notes. Keep them somewhere safe." He told me where he'd stored _his_ notes, his 'Pearl Harbor file'. That got me thinking, which in my line of work, was a dangerous thing. If Rocco had kept records — a clear violation of omerta, then perhaps I should as well. I decided that his advice was worth considering, and I began to take notes, secreting them in a dusty old box in a storage room at St. Rafael's church. Judging from the dust, the box hadn't been moved for years. It was easy to go in under the pretext of going to 'confession' once or twice a week and hiding my 'records'. I'd also taken Rocco's notes, from where he'd hidden them, and added them to my own.

The other thing that made me consider my life was one morning when I got a call to Mr. S's office one morning.

"Tony," Mr. S said to me, his voice warm, even though his eyes were ice cold. It was business.

"Yeah, boss?"

"I've got a shop that's late paying their fees. I need you to go break a couple of ribs to make an example of them."

"Okay, boss. Where?" The boss charged businesses to keep drug dealers away, which was ironic, since he ran most of the local drug dealers himself. Most businesses were intimidated into paying his 'protection' money.

"It's Bertoni's Gelateria, on twelfth street," Mr. S answered.

I felt a shiver. I fondly remembered Bertoni's Gelateria. Every kid in my school knew the Bertonis — they were the happy, older couple who always had a little 'extra' gelato on hot school days, so kids could have a small bite or two of the luscious treat on their way home. Even though I was a known bully, Mrs. Bertoni treated me like I was her own child — the same way she treated everyone. The gelateria was one place that I had pleasant memories from school days. Now, though, I had to put all those feelings aside. "Uh, okay boss," I answered nervously.

"You and Sammy go over and remind them that they shouldn't be late. We don't want people thinking that they can miss a payment, do we?"

"No, boss."

Sammy and I drove over to the little shop. When we walked in the door, a little bell tinkled, and Mrs. Bertoni looked up from a customer she was serving. Her face went white. "Vincenzo," she called urgently to her husband.

The customer looked our way, and she paled as well. We were pretty well known. Sammy just jerked his head toward the door, and the woman scurried out. Sammy turned the latch to lock the door behind her.

Mr. Bertoni came out of the back of the shop, and he started when he saw us. There was a look of resigned certainty in his eyes, as if he knew what we were there for. "How, uh, how can I help you boys? Would you like to sample some gelato?" He was stalling.

Sammy shook his head. "You're late with your payment. The boss is helping keep the drug dealers away from here. You know it'd be bad for business if drug dealers were hanging out around your shop."

"One of my machines broke down," Mr. Bertoni explained, his voice pleading. "I had to get parts to fix it. Otherwise, I wouldn't have anything to give your boss."

Sammy and I walked behind the counter, directly to Mr. B. "You should have told the boss," he said, menacingly.

"I ... I'll pay extra this month," he begged.

I pushed aside my feelings. My fist hit his ribs like a sledge-hammer, and I could hear bones cracking. Mr. B's eyes widened with fear and pain. Before he could fall, I hit him again, and again, heard more bones breaking. He collapsed in a heap, and Mrs. Bertoni dropped beside him, crying in anguish, trying to comfort her husband.

Sammy and I left the gelateria, ignoring the sounds of Mrs. Bertoni's hysterically sobbing as she tried to help her husband. My personal feelings didn't matter, I kept telling myself. I had a job to do.

Mr. Bertoni died in the hospital that evening.

I was devastated. I'd just killed someone. Up to that point, I'd just been a leg-breaker, hired muscle to persuade people to do the boss's bidding. Now, though, I had blood on my hands, and it was innocent blood of a kindly old gentleman who I'd known for years. Mr. B had never done anything to me, but for a few hundred dollars he owed my boss, I'd killed him. After a few days of torment, I quit. Mr. S didn't take that well at all. I had a really bad feeling when I left his mansion.

Everything went to hell three days after I'd quit. I was walking to the park, to sit and think, like I'd done for the past couple of days. I needed to figure out what I was going to do. As I rounded a corner on the sidewalk, I was nearly run over by a wisp of a laughing little girl on her bicycle, playing happily. My presence startled her, and she swerved to avoid me. As I called to her to be careful, she tried to look over her shoulder at me, and the bike careened, nearly out of control, toward the street.

Almost at the same time, a car came quickly around the corner. I recognized Sammy sitting in the passenger seat. The gun in his hand was unmistakable. I realized, at that moment, that Mr. S wasn't having Sammy pay a social visit. He intended to make sure that I didn't have a chance to talk to anyone.

The world began to move in slow motion. I saw the bicycle bounce off the curb. For a moment, I was torn between the life of the innocent little girl and my own safety from Sammy. There was no time for the driver to react to the appearance of the girl; two tons of metal hit sixty pounds of girl and bicycle. The girl crumpled like a rag doll, bouncing off the car like a ping-pong ball, while I instinctively dove to the side when Sammy' gun swung toward me. I heard a couple of onlookers scream, and the loud bangs of the gun firing twice, followed by the screech of tires as the car sped away.

I crawled back to my feet, and I looked with horror on the girl, lying crumpled and bloody in the street. I guessed that she couldn't have been more than seven. Her bicycle was an almost unrecognizable tangle of metal and rubber. My heart sank, just like it had when Mr. Bertoni had died. I was the cause of the little girl being injured.

Knowing that the cops were on their way, I scurried away. It wouldn’t take Sherlock Holmes to connect me with the mob, and then I'd come in for extra attention, which would in turn make my life totally worthless. Unless .... A thought intruded — if I turned states' evidence, and went into witness protection, I'd be okay — maybe. I started to think that I had a better chance than if I tried to hide on my own, especially with the notes I'd kept over the years and the notes Rocco had 'bequeathed' to me.

I spent the night in a cheap hotel room, where the front desk hadn't asked for a name or ID. With a sinking feeling, I watched the news and saw that the girl had been injured in what appeared to be a drive-by shooting. I had been right — she _was_ seven, and in the picture they showed of her before the accident, she was a sweet little angel. The police already suspected, from the evidence at hand, that it involved Mr. S. As to the girl, she was in the hospital with multiple broken bones, and in a coma. My heart ached when I saw the television image of the grief-stricken mother and father, pleading for information to help bring the perpetrators to justice.

That next morning, I decided to go to the DA's office and turn states' evidence. As I walked down the street, a hat covering my eyes, and being very attentive to everything around me, I recognized a car coming slowly down the street. Mr. S was obviously desperate — his goons were potentially facing vehicular homicide on an innocent girl, which had greatly outraged the community. Knowing that if I continued on the street, I'd be spotted and probably recognized, I ducked into a shop.

A bell tinkled as I backed through the door. I ignored it and threaded my way away from the window and door, to minimize my visibility from the street.

"Good morning, Mister Martinelli," I heard from behind me. I spun, startled, and found myself looking at an old woman behind a counter. She looked like a stereotypical gypsy, with bangles and jewelry, bright red clothing, a gold-capped tooth, and her hair in a scarf. She looked like a caricature out of an old movie. I'm sure I flinched. "How can I help you today?" she crooned. "Or would you prefer that I tell you what it is you're looking for?"

"How ... how could you know ...?"

"Madam Zelda knows all," she replied with a toothy grin. She stared into my eyes, and I felt like I was being mesmerized. "You feel guilt for your associates," she pronounced after a moment. "And you bear guilt at what happened to an innocent girl."

"How ...?" I stammered.

"Madam Zelda knows all," was her simple, enigmatic reply.

Something about this woman crumbled my tough-guy exterior. "It's all my fault," I said, releasing the powerful emotions of guilt that had me nearly in tears for the first time since I'd been four. "If I hadn't been where I was, she'd be okay." A sudden question nagged at me, prompted by her claim that she 'knew all'. "Will she ...?" I wasn't sure I wanted to know the answer, but I had to.

Madam Zelda shook her head. "No," she said with certainty.

That was it. I was responsible for another death. Maybe it _would_ be better if Sammy put a bullet in my head. How could I ever hope to atone for two deaths?

"Her soul has moved on," Madam Zelda continued. "Her body is an empty shell, which has not yet passed. But there is a way she can live again."

My heart raced with hope. "How?" If I could do something to help the girl, it'd be worth anything, including my own life. My life was worthless, anyway.

"In a way, it _will_ cost you your life," Madam Zelda continued mysteriously.

The old woman was spooking me. She was reading my thoughts. Still, if there was hope for the girl .... "How?" I asked hesitantly.

Madam Zelda handed me a medal on a chain. It looked like a St. Christopher medal my mom had given me years before. "Wear this."

"How will that help ...?"

"Her name is Tina. Tina McElroy. It _will_ help her," she said. "Wear the medal, and do not be afraid of your former associates."

I willingly handed over the money she insisted upon, and, perhaps foolishly, put the medal around my neck. With a glance over my shoulder, which got a reassuring nod from Madam Zelda, I stepped back into the street.

Her words had given me a false sense of bravado. I had heard her say that I needn't fear Mr. S or his enforcers. With a renewed determination, I strode down the street, heading toward city hall — and the DA's office. I could bring down the gang, end some of the drug scourge, and, according to Madam Zelda, save a little girl's life. For the first time, I felt that my life had a purpose.

I was a little too cocky, a little too sure of my invincibility. After all, Madam Zelda had told me not to fear. I joined a group of people waiting to go through the security checkpoint into city hall. Two gentlemen, who appeared to be normal businessmen in their suits, carrying their briefcases, joined me in line. I didn't recognize them, though I should have been suspicious, but I was too sure of myself. Then a woman ahead of me fainted. The crowd pressed around her to see if she was okay — a normal human reaction, and I was swept up with the group. The alarm finally did go off — this was not a good situation.

Even as I started to push my way out of the crowd, I felt a curious burning sensation in my back, and pressure, then pain, in my guts. My eyes had to have opened wide as I realized that the fainting woman had been a decoy to get the crowd gathered, and then, using the crowd as cover, I'd been knifed by one of the men with a briefcase. I felt pain, and then darkness started to close in around me. I could feel my body falling to the ground.

The odd thing was that the falling sensation didn't stop. I could see a swirling mist around me that I seemed to be plummeting through, turning and twisting slowly as I fell. The odd sensation went on and on for a very long time — I couldn't tell how much time passed. It was disorienting, and I felt a twinge of vertigo.

The falling stopped suddenly; I felt as if I'd hit a brick wall. I struggled with the darkness, trying to open my eyes, but they didn't seem to respond, leaving me feeling alone in pitch blackness. Every part of my body hurt. I considered, briefly, whether the sense of falling had something to do with dying. If so, I probably wasn't in heaven, based on the life I'd led and the pain I felt. Was I in hell? Was I now going to spend an eternity paying for my less-than-honorable lifestyle? I'd never really 'gotten religion' from Father Jerry; maybe I should have paid more attention.

I struggled to open my eyes. My muscles didn't seem to be responding like I expected, but eventually, a slit of incredibly bright light pierced the darkness I'd been in.

"Doctor!" I heard someone call urgently. "She's trying to open her eyes!" My confused brain struggled with the data that seemed overwhelming. The pain everywhere was intense, and the light too bright for me to focus.

Doctor. That made sense. I'd been stabbed, and I was in an emergency room or hospital. Whoever called out to the doctor sounded shocked that I'd opened my eyes.

As my eyes adjusted, and blurry shapes began to distinguish themselves from the bright light, I saw an outline of a face in front of me. The face moved, and I tried to move my eyes to follow. It wasn't easy, but I managed to keep the face in view. It moved again; now it was becoming clear that it was a man. The doctor? I kept trying to focus on the face as he moved around again.

"Impossible!" I heard the doctor mutter as I watched his lips moving. Slowly, things were becoming clearer. The doctor looked older — perhaps fifty, with slight graying in his hair. His hand came into view, and he was holding a penlight. "Can you follow the light?" he asked. He moved the light around, and I followed it with my eyes.

The doctor turned off the light. I could see that he looked concerned — and confused. He took a step away from me and conferred with the nurse. "This is impossible," I heard him say.

"Has Dr. Clark looked at her EEG?" the nurse said. EEG — that was some kind of brain scan, wasn't it?

"Her EEG said she was clinically brain dead," the doctor whispered. I'm sure he thought I couldn't hear him. "Well, at least I won't have to tell her family that it's time to take her off the ventilator." He sounded quite relieved.

I thought about what he'd said. If they were talking about taking me off the ventilator, then I was dead!

The doctor continued. "Her family should be outside. They were coming ... so I could tell them the bad news. Now ... I don't know what to say."

Things were confusing. My body hurt all over, like I was battered from head to toe. But I'd been knifed — the pain should have been localized. And the doctor and nurse had said .... My brain locked on a couple of key words. "She. Her," they'd said, not once but several times. Things were not making sense at all.

Two people came into the room — a man and a woman, in their early thirties, I guessed. I could see them hovering in my field of view. Both were crying. The woman bent forward toward me and hugged me, causing pain from my aching body. "Honey," she blubbered over and over, ignoring the fact that she was getting her tears all over me.

I had a million questions to try to make sense out of this confusing situation. "Uhhh," I croaked. I was trying to say "what," but the word was strangled in my throat. I sensed something in my mouth and scratching my raw throat.

The doctor put a stethoscope on my chest, and listened to my lungs. As he straightened, I could see a look of total amazement on his face. "Let's try taking her off the respirator." There was that word again.

Getting the breathing tube taken out was painful, but it was more painful to try to breath with broken ribs, which I'd slowly figured I had. "What?" I croaked again, this time successfully. The sound that echoed in my ears was soft and much higher-pitched than the deep, intimidating voice I was used to. Another piece of the puzzle.

"Don't talk, honey," the woman blubbered. "You'll be okay. The doctors are taking care of you." She had an angelic face, radiating care and love, and I felt calmed in her presence.

"What?" I croaked again. I intended to ask 'what happened', but I couldn't get much more out.

"You were hit by a car, honey," the man said. He wasn't even trying to wipe the tears from his eyes.

I flinched from the aches and pain again, and in my peripheral vision, I could see a nurse doing something with a syringe. In a few seconds, I felt tired, and I let my eyes close.

"This is impossible!" I heard the doctor telling the man and woman in an insistent whisper. "The chances of her spontaneously coming out of a coma after more than three weeks — it's highly unlikely."

"I'm not going to argue with a miracle," the woman said. "Thank you for getting her back."

"This shouldn't be possible," the doctor said insistently. I couldn't see, but I was pretty sure he'd left the room.

Three weeks? Was that how long they'd said? Was that how long I'd felt like I was falling? I'd had little sensation of time.

It took a while, but pieces of the puzzle were finally snapping into place. Madam Zelda had said that the little girl — Tina somebody-or-other, could live. That meant I would give up my life so the little girl could live again. I didn't figure that meant that I would _become_ the little girl. But the old gypsy woman had said that the girl's soul had moved on. Which meant that somehow, I'd ... fallen ... into her body? That made no sense.

What was strange is that I _felt_ someone inside my head with me, someone happy and sad at the same time. The feeling wasn't going away; if anything, it was getting stronger. I lay back in the bed. "Who are you?" I asked in my head.

"I'm me, silly!" a soft voice answered. The voice felt happy, like a child who was playing riddle games with an adult. In a way, it was.

"Who are you?" I asked again. "What's your name?" I was afraid that I was losing my mind.

"You're funny! I'm Tina."

"But ... you're dead. Madam Zelda said you were!"

"Who's ... Madam Zelda?" the voice asked. "How does she know I'm dead? And if I'm dead, why am I here with you?" The voice started to ramble. "Where am I, anyway? Who are _you_?"

"Madam Zelda is an old gypsy woman who told me that you'd ... your soul had moved on."

"I'm ... dead?" The voice sounded incredulous at the news. "Maybe that's why it's so warm and happy, and I can eat all the ice cream I want and never get sick to my tummy like I did at Katie's party!" She sounded confused. Then she sounded stern. "Who are you? Why are you here?"

"I'm ... I'm Antonio Martinelli," I said. "You almost ran over me on the sidewalk, and then you got hit by the car."

"Oh, yeah." She paused for a moment. "You're the mobster guy that Peter told me about."

It was my turn to be confused. "Who's Peter?"

I could feel her smile in my head. "Peter is kind of in charge of a bunch of us. He's really nice, kind of like grandpa, but a lot older. He's got a funny-looking white beard, and he wears a robe. He lets me have all the ice cream I want. He told me about you — that a bad man was going to be with me for a bit, and that you'd quit being bad, and that I needed to help you." I could sense a frown. "I don't know how I'm supposed to help you. He didn't tell me."

"Did he tell you why?"

"No." She was silent for a bit. "Peter said you'll help Mommy and Daddy so they aren't sad. You have to go to sleep now. Peter said so. I'm going to go play and see if Peter has some chocolate chip cookies. I love chocolate chip cookies. They're just like Mommy makes them."

I felt her go away, and I was left alone to think about what she'd said, or rather, what Peter had said. I was a bad man who quit being bad? And I needed to help Mommy and Daddy feel better? Sleep was slowly catching up to me, but I was left with really troubling philosophical thoughts. Who was this Peter she was talking about?

I was suddenly in a dream, where I was in a park, with bright blue skies, and birds chirping. There was a peaceful pond, with ducks and even a pair of swans swimming. And there was a girl coming toward me — a cheery, happy, seven-year-old girl in a bright floral-print dress. She had long blonde hair that danced around her face as she skipped to me, and the breeze teased her golden locks. There was a warm, delightful sparkle in her eyes, and her smile was heart-melting. She took my hand. 'Come on,' she said to me as she started to skip away, humming happily. I skipped with her, and when we got to a bridge over the pond, she stopped and we looked down into the calm water. I saw two girls — twins — staring up at us from the pond. 'You're me, and I'm you,' she said. It made sense, in a weird way. We skipped around, running, playing tag, and giggling happily, like it was the most natural thing in the whole world.

The dream was so peaceful and pleasant that I didn't want to wake up. But slowly, I let reality interrupt. It was, I'm sure, the pain of all the battered bones and bruises that brought me back to the world of the waking.

"Mommy and Daddy are still here!" the voice said happily as soon as I was partially awake. "I knew they would be. They're the best Mommy and Daddy in the whole world! Peter said they were worried about me. I didn't like it when they were so sad."

The woman — Mommy — heard me stirring when I moaned in discomfort. She was immediately at my side. "Do you need anything, honey?" she asked, with a concern and love in her voice that I hadn't heard since I was little and my mother fussed over me.

"Hurt," was the first thing I could think of to say. It was true — I hadn't ever felt this much pain from this many places on my body. Well, on _a_ body, because right now, I was in _her_ body.

"I'll get the nurse," she said, pausing to kiss my forehead. Even that hurt.

The woman came back almost immediately with the nurse, and the nurse did something with the syringe again. In a bit, the pain was gone, but I felt sleepy.

Tina came back. Was she a figment of my imagination, something I hallucinated about when I was between the waking and sleeping worlds?

"You're being a dumb boy!" she said, sounding cross with me. "I'm not a hallu ... halluci ...." I could feel her frown. "That’s a hard word. What does it mean?"

"It means that you're not real. My mind is making you up."

"Oh. Well, I'm not one! I'm real. Just ask Peter. And grandpa! They know I'm real."

"You're only here when I'm about to sleep," I protested. "How do I know you're not a dream?"

I felt her get upset, and then she went away. I wondered if I really _was_ hallucinating.

Then she came back. "Peter said you wouldn't believe me. So did _your_ mommy." I could feel her smile. "She's pretty. I hope I look that pretty when I ...." She stopped suddenly, and I could feel her sadness. "I don't get to grow up, do I?"

I was stunned. "Are you going to stay with me?"

"I guess," she said hesitantly. "If Peter says it's okay."

"Then you'll grow up with me, won't you?"

I could feel her face brighten at that thought. "Yeah. We'll be like the twins in your dream!"

"Twins sharing a body and brain," I added. I suddenly realized, with a start, that she knew of my dream.

"Anyway, your mommy said that you wouldn't believe me, just like you never believed in Santa Claus because you couldn't see him on Christmas Eve. She told me that when you were five, you told her that Santa was a fake."

"How ... how do you know that?" I asked, suddenly a little frightened. The voice knew something that only my mama had known. She'd never even told my pop about that.

"She told me. She's really nice. She gave me some spaghetti and meatballs that she made. She's a really good cook. She said you like her meatballs most of all. I do, too. They're really yummy."

I was quiet at that. Tina had said that she was with her grandpa, and now with my mother? And she knew things about me that only my mother and I knew? It was more intimidating that Mr. S, Sammy, and Rocco all rolled into one. I was either hallucinating, or she was in heaven, at least part-time, with people she and I knew. The implications of that were not comforting, especially since I'd lead a less-than-stellar life.

Over the next few weeks, I slowly gained more strength, and some of the pains went away. I must have been better, because they put me in another room, without nearly as many gizmos and monitors and stuff. They wouldn't let me out of the bed; I overheard the doctor telling Tina's mommy and daddy that I had broken a thigh, three ribs, a collarbone, and my right arm. I also had suffered a severe concussion and minor skull fracture. That was taking me time to get used to — I was Tina, and the two people were now _my_ mommy and daddy. And all the while, Tina — the real Tina — was with me in my head.

I got to start eating food again, which meant that I had to go to the bathroom. Since I was still in casts on my leg and arm, every time I had to go, I had to call a nurse. The first time I went to the bathroom, I was embarrassed. Tina laughed. "What's wrong? Haven't you gone to the bathroom before?" she giggled.

"Not like this," I answered back angrily. "I've got ... girl parts!"

"What else? We're a girl, in case you didn't notice."

"But ... it's weird!"

"Oh, quit being such a baby. At least it's not a ... thing!" She sounded quite offended by the thought that I might prefer having guy parts.

"Yeah, well I grew up with a _thing_, and I know how it works. I don't know how all this girl stuff works."

"Oh, quit being such a baby," Tina admonished me. She was right. I had her life, and her body, and I had to get used to it.

While I was healing, I had a lot of tests done, and all the doctors seemed to be puzzled. Tina thought it was a good joke — they all thought we were dead, but we weren't, and they couldn't figure it out. They also took a lot of X-rays to see how my bones were healing. They were most concerned about the skull fracture, but that was healing the best of all. But Tina was scared that underneath all the bandages on her head, they'd had to cut her hair, or that she'd have a big scar on her head. I agreed, but from a different viewpoint. In my dreams, she was such a pretty girl that it would be a shame for her — me — to have bad scars.

Tina was still teaching me about her life. She thought it was hilarious. She acted just like my little sister used to when she played teacher — trying to be all stern, and acting important. She always giggled when I made a mistake. I was getting used to having Tina in my head. She was a nice companion. But Tina was only around in the early morning, before I was completely awake, or in the evening, before I was asleep. She came to me in my dreams often, too. We always did something fun, like ride ponies, or play on swings and slides, or even ride bikes. Sometimes, I'd dream we were with someone shopping, and picking out clothes and dresses and such. And we were always twins — always looking exactly alike, down to our hair and our clothes and our shoes. Whenever she came to me in a dream, she gave me a big hug, and then another before she left. It was one of the most pleasant parts of my dreams.

I didn't realize it then, but Tina was using my dreams — and our special time together — to teach me about being a girl. When I finally caught on, I confronted her. "You're making me have these dreams," I said sternly, "to make me learn about being a girl, aren't you?"

She laughed at me. "It took you long enough," she said. "You're just a silly, stupid boy, and it takes you a long time to figure things out!"

I was hurt by what she said — that I was silly and stupid. In my head, I turned away from her, angry and pouting. I didn't want her in my head if she was just going to make fun of me. I felt myself crying inside.

The next thing I knew, she was hugging me. "I'm sorry," she apologized. I could tell that she meant it. "I didn't mean to make you cry." I found myself returning her hug, clinging tightly to her and crying on her shoulder. "I promise I won't call you stupid again, okay?"

I sniffled. "Okay."

"But I might call you silly sometimes," she added with a giggle, "because sometimes you _are_ silly."

"Okay," I said, feeling better. Tina was so radiantly happy that it was impossible to stay mad at her.

One day, after Tina had left me for the day, a woman and girl came to visit. The woman was about the age of Mommy (yes, I was starting to call her that, even though it had been weird the first few times), and the girl was about Tina's age. I didn't recognize them. The girl had nice brown hair, and a pretty dress, but she seemed hesitant when she saw me in the hospital bed. I was stupefied; I didn't know them, and Tina had given me no clue. "Hi," I mumbled.

"Hi, Tina," the girl answered. The fact that I'd said hello first seemed to erase some of her fears. "You look like a mess." She sounded a bit shy and tentative.

"I know," I said, trying to stall for time. Maybe they'd go away if I pretended to be sleepy.

"That's Katie," Tina suddenly said in my head. "She's my ... our ... best friend!" It was the first time she'd come to me during the day. I felt grateful. Then I thought about what she'd said.

"I thought I was your best friend," I protested in my mind.

"Well, okay. Second-best friend."

I turned my attention back to Katie, who hadn't realized that I'd been distracted. "I hurt a lot, too, Katie."

"I would have guessed that from all your bandages and casts," Katie's mom said pleasantly. "Katie wanted to come visit a while ago, but I made her wait until your Mom said it was okay. I knew you needed to rest and heal."

Katie slowly opened up; I could tell she was nervous about something, but eventually, she was chattering away. I let her do the talking, and every once in a while, I had to let Tina help me, because Katie would talk about someone — or something — that I didn't know about. After a while, the nurse came in to give me some pain medicine, and she chased them out.

As the pain medicine started to make me sleepy again, the doctor came around. After looking at me and my chart a bit, he said that he thought I'd be able to go home in about a week. I felt relieved; the hospital was a boring place to be.

Tina spoke to me after the doctor and nurse had left. "Katie doesn't like hospitals," she said. "Her daddy died in a hospital two years ago."

"She must really love you as a friend if she came here, then."

"Us, you mean," Tina said with a giggle. "She's _our_ friend!"

By the time I went home, I'd been in the hospital for almost seven weeks. It was hard to believe that much time had passed. My broken bones were mostly healed, and I could walk — a little — on my broken leg, which was in a walking cast, but the doctors wanted me to use crutches for a few more weeks. Tina and I both agreed that we hated crutches, especially since we had a broken arm to try to use with the crutches.

One day at home, Tina's mom sat beside me. I was in a reclining chair in the living room, watching TV. She turned off the TV. "How are you doing, honey?" she asked, interrupting the show I was watching.

I started to answer, and then figured I better think more. She wouldn't ask if something wasn't bothering her. I didn't need Tina to tell me that. "Okay, I guess."

"I'm a little worried," she said hesitantly. "With your head injury, the doctor said you might be ... different."

"Different? How?" I was concerned about why she'd interrupted me. Had I done something wrong?

"I don't know," she said. "You just don't seem to be ... yourself."

"She's talking about how quiet you are," Tina suddenly said in my head.

"But ... I'm not quiet."

"Yes, you are, but I'm not, or wasn't. Mommy always said that I can't keep my mouth shut. You don't talk a lot."

"Oh."

"And you don't call our parents Mommy and Daddy. I bet she thinks your brain got hurt." I could feel Tina's worry. "The doctor said it might, and that might make you different."

"But ... I can use that as an excuse in case I goof, can't I?"

I felt Tina scowling inside my head. "No. I don't wanna do that. That's why I'm here to help you."

"I'm sorry," I apologized to Tina's mom — my mom, I corrected myself. "Mommy," I added, and could feel Tina grinning in my head. "My head hurts sometimes, and I don't want to talk."

Mommy smiled and patted me on my leg when I called her 'Mommy'. "You'll be okay, I promise. We'll be here to help you. You'll have to forgive your dad and me for worrying about you."

Tina could feel what I was thinking. "Go ahead and tell her,” she prompted. I should have known that I had no secrets from the passenger and guide inside my head

"Can you help me, Mommy?" I asked. I suddenly realized that I was small and vulnerable, and I needed their help. "When I'm not doing what I used to do?"

She moved to sit on the edge of my chair, and wrapped her arms around me. "Yes, honey," she said, just before she kissed me on the forehead again.

"I like it when she hugs me," Tina said. "It makes me feel warm and safe."

I smiled at Tina. "Me, too!" I agreed enthusiastically.

Mommy turned the television back on. It happened to be the top-of-the-hour news, and she was about to change the channel when the topic caught her attention.

"... the police are looking for Samuel Ainsley, who they would like to question regarding a hit-and-run accident involving a seven-year-old girl two months ago." The screen showed a picture, and my blood felt cold. It was Sammy. "Mr. Ainsley is also implicated in the beating death of a shop owner a month before that, and has been connected to the Scarletti crime family. That makes him a person of extreme interest to the District Attorney's office."

I felt a chill through Tina. "That's the man who tried to kill you, isn't it?"

"Yes. He's very bad."

"He scares me." Tina said with a shudder.

Mommy noticed me tense up. "What is it, Tina?" she asked, concern in her voice.

"He's ... he was in the car that hit me," I answered slowly. I saw mommy pale.

I understood why. Sammy was associated with a criminal family. If he'd been implicated in the hit-and-run injury of an innocent girl, and the murder of a beloved gelateria owner, then he'd either end up 'disappearing', or he'd work to eliminate witnesses — and that included me. Suddenly, being a weak seven-year-old girl felt completely helpless.

I had a thought — I'd kept enough notes that I could either trade them for safety, or ....

"If they're as bad as you say, they'll always scare us," Tina interjected. "Are we ever going to be safe? And will they hurt Mommy and Daddy?" She was genuinely worried.

I couldn't answer. Yes, they would hurt them, and anyone else who got in their way. With Sammy being under investigation, things would get a little uncomfortable for the Scarletti family. They would work to get the heat off, somehow, anyhow.

"They WILL hurt them, won't they?" Tina accused. "What are we going to do?"

"They don’t know where we live," I told Tina.

"They'll find us, though, won't they?"

I nodded to myself. "Yes, they probably will."

"You have a plan, don't you?" Tina said with certainty after she thought a moment.

"Maybe. How far is Saint Rafael's church?" I asked. "Heck, I don't even know where I ... um, we ... live!"

Mommy noticed that I seemed to be lost in thought. "Are you okay, honey?" she asked.

"I think I'd like a chocolate chip cookie, Mommy," I answered, trying to be sweet and innocent.

Tina laughed. "That's now how I ask, silly! I always say, if I'm such a sweetie, you'd give me something sweet for a snack, like maybe ... ice cream. Then Mommy would say no ice cream. Then I'd say, how about cake, with lots of icing? And she'd laugh and say no cake. Then I'd pout and say that I don't know what I want. Maybe she should just pick something. And she'd laugh and say, Why didn't you just ask for chocolate chip cookies? And I'd giggle and tell her that if she insists, maybe I'll eat one! That's how _I_ do it!"

I decided to play Tina's game. "Mommy," I started hesitantly, "if you call me honey, it's because I'm sweet. And if I'm a sweetie, you'd give me something sweet for a snack."

Mommy's face brightened. "Like what?"

"Maybe some ice cream? Chocolate ice cream, with caramel sauce and hot fudge, and whipped cream, and cherries." For some reason, I felt almost giddy, like a little kid again begging for treats. It was a nice feeling.

Mommy laughed. "I think that's too many sweets before dinner. Maybe you have a better idea?"

I played it out the way Tina had told me, and by the end, Mommy was giggling and happy. I think she realized that her daughter was coming back, just like she remembered.

"Thanks," I told Tina.

Tina hugged me. At least, I swear that's what it felt like inside my head. I was all warm and huggy and happy.

Later that night, after Daddy got home, he carried me outside so I could enjoy the warm summer night. I was feeling safe again, protected by Mommy and Daddy, but then a car drove by. I recognized the car as soon as it turned on the street. It was Frankie's. Frankie was one of Don Scarletti's boys, a friend of Sammy. The men in the car looked at me for a moment, and it frightened me. I hoped that Sammy wasn't in the car. Otherwise, he'd recognize me, and I'd be in trouble, and so would Mommy and Daddy.

"Those are more bad men, aren't they?" Tina asked when we went inside.

"Yes," I answered slowly. "But I don't think they recognized us."

Tina was quiet. After a few moments, I asked, "Do Mommy and Daddy let us use the computer?"

"You're just being a silly boy again. Of course they do. I use it for school all the time! Or I used to." Tina's voice had a hint of sadness, like she missed some of the minor things in her life — possibly even school.

"Let's see where Saint Rafael's church is," I suggested.

"Is it a Catholic church?" Tina asked. "We're not Catholic. Grandma says Catholics aren't good people. She says that Catholics aren't good Americans, because they listen to the Pope, and they worship all the saints instead of just God."

I was surprised at her misperceptions that had been planted in Tina's mind. "I was Catholic. Does that make me bad?"

"But you were a bad man," Tina countered.

I sighed to myself. "Yes, but it was because I was a bully, not because I was Catholic."

"So what are we going to do? You can't tell Mommy and Daddy that you know about the notes. You can't tell them that we're both here. They'd think I really did hurt my head, and they wouldn't believe us."

"I know."

"So what are you going to do?"

"I don't know. It'd be easier if we didn't have these silly casts on."

"I'm glad we don't have scars on our head," Tina said out of the blue. "I hope we don't have scars on our arms and legs, too. I want to be a model someday. You can't do that if you have a lot of scars."

I considered that maybe Tina _did_ talk a little too much at times.

"Hey, that's not nice!" she said. "I do NOT talk too much!" I sensed that she was sticking her tongue out at me. "Besides, I can hear your thoughts!"

I shut up. Better not to think about things like that. I needed her help, and, to be honest, I really liked her company. I couldn't afford to have her angry at me.

After dinner, we went on the computer, and I found two Saint Rafael's in the city. I hadn't known that there were two. Tina got worried, but I looked around both neighborhoods until I recognized some streets, and I knew which one it was. The only problem was that the church was almost six miles away. Even if I didn't have the cast on, I couldn't even ride a bike there.

"I'm going to tell Mommy that I had a nightmare," I told Tina.

"No!" she insisted loudly, so loudly, in fact, that I was sure Mommy could hear it in the next room.

"They're going to find us someday," I argued with Tina. "We have to do something."

"But she'll think we hurt our head!" Tina was scared that Mommy and Daddy wouldn't believe her, but would take her to a doctor.

"We have to do something!" I countered. She quit arguing; I think she realized that I was right. It felt like she was gone, though.

After a moment, she came back. "Peter said I should trust you. It's hard. I'm scared of the mob guys."

I hugged her. "If Peter says it's okay, then everything will be okay."

That Saturday, I got up early. I'd gotten my leg cast off the day before, and my arm cast was off, so it was the first time I could put one clothes. Tina didn't seem to be awake yet, so I picked out something from her closet that was like what I wore in some of our dreams. When I got done, I brushed my hair.

I stood looking in the mirror, transfixed. Tina — I — was a pretty girl. It was the first time I _felt_ pretty. Until then, I'd had casts or bandages, or my hair was messy, and I was wearing robes and other clothes that would fit around my casts. But now — I was amazed at how cute we were.

"I told you we were pretty," Tina suddenly said, startling me.

"You scared me!"

She giggled. "Silly boy! I've always been here, so why are you still surprised?"

"I'm _not_ a silly boy!" I protested. "Look!" I looked back at the mirror. "See, I'm a pretty girl!"

Tina giggled. "Yes, we are, aren't we? And you picked out a nice dress all by yourself, and you brushed your hair so it's pretty!" I felt her hug me, and it was warm and happy again. "You did well today."

I suddenly realized the game Tina had played. She'd made me admit that I was a girl for the first time. "I guess this means that I'm getting used to being a girl," I said slowly. Tina hugged me again.

Later that morning, I told Mommy and Daddy that I'd had nightmares for the last three nights. They were a little worried, but they didn't panic. "Was it the same nightmare?" Mommy asked.

"Uh huh," I answered softly.

"What was it about?" Daddy asked. He set me on his lap and wrapped his arm around me to make me feel safe. It was a nice feeling.

"One of the bad men who hit me with the car told me that his friends killed him because he didn't want to be bad anymore. He took my hand and we flew to a church — like Peter Pan. I was scared of flying in the sky, just holding his hand. He showed me a box. He said it had paper that would make the bad men go to jail for a long time. But he needed me to help get it. Then he went away."

Mommy and Daddy glanced nervously at each other. Mommy knew how I'd reacted to the news story about the mob hit man. "It was just a dream," Mommy said.

"It'll go away. It wasn't real," Daddy reassured me as he brushed my cheeks with his fingertips.

"What if it _is_ real, Daddy?" I asked, trying to sound scared. "If there really is a box of papers, and we give them to the police, we'll be safe, won't we?"

Daddy reassured me that it would be okay, that it was just a dream. After a bit, I had some leftover cookies, and then I watched a movie.

"They don't believe you," Tina accused me. "You're going to get us sent to a doctor."

"We'll see," I answered. "Peter told you to trust me." To be honest, I was feeling pretty uncertain of myself, and Tina knew it, but I'd started the game, and had to finish it now.

That night, I heard Mommy and Daddy talking after they thought I was asleep. Mommy was worried that I had a brain injury, and that I was hallucinating, but Daddy didn't think it was serious. Mommy reminded him, though, of how scared I'd been when I first saw the news story.

I had the same nightmare that night. And the night after that. And the next two nights after that. At least, that's what I told Mommy and Daddy. They were both getting a little worried. I think Daddy would have taken me to the doctor, but then he thought he saw a car following him home from work that day.

"Daddy's getting nervous about the bad men, too," Tina told me unnecessarily.

"No kidding!" Those weren't the words I wanted to use; I wanted to swear. Somehow, though, I couldn't. I heard Tina giggling, and I realized that she was keeping me from swearing.

By the next Saturday, Daddy was almost paranoid. Mommy was worried about both of us. That's when Daddy finally told Mommy that we were going to put an end to this nightmare nonsense once and for all. We went to the car, and he drove.

Saint Rafael's church was just like I remembered it — from my previous life. I noticed that there were quite a few people around, as was usual on a Saturday afternoon. That meant that the church building was open, but it also meant that it would be harder to 'find' the box of papers. I took Mommy's and Daddy's hands, and led the way to the church. They were looking nervously at each other, but followed me anyway.

"I'm scared," Tina said. "What if you're wrong?"

"I'm not wrong," I reassured her. "Peter told you so."

"Yeah," she said sheepishly. "I remember. This morning, he told me everything was going to be okay, too."

Inside, I looked around, and with Mommy and Daddy, walked toward the bell tower.

"May I help you?" The voice surprised all three of us. I don't know who jumped the most.

"Uh, my daughter wanted to look around some," Daddy said hesitantly. He wasn't sure what to say to the woman. "It's, uh, a school project about, uh, comparing religions."

I pulled Mommy down. "Please ask her about all the saint statues," I whispered insistently.

"She's not going to believe you,” Tina warned me. "This isn't going to work.”

"Do you have a better idea?"

"No," Tina said reluctantly.

"If Mommy can get her away from the storage closet, then I can show Daddy the box, and he'll look at some of the notes. If he believes them, he'll come take them to the police." Tina seemed satisfied by my plan.

Mommy asked the lady, just as I'd asked. The woman seemed pleased to be able to show off and explain part of the church to visitors.

I took Daddy's elbow, and opened the closet door. Daddy looked inside, but didn't seem to believe me. I tugged him toward where I knew the box was. "There," I said. "Just like in my nightmares."

Daddy looked at me, and then pulled a few stray items off the top of the box. He opened it, and when he saw a pile of paper inside, his eyes widened. He looked at me again. "How ...?" he started to ask in astonishment.

"Is it important? Like the man in the dream said?" I asked, trying to sound innocent.

Daddy took one of the papers. As he started to read, his eyes got wider, and his mouth dropped open in shock. "This is ...." He shook his head, stunned. "This is incredible!" He looked at me again. "How did you know?"

I shook my head. "I don't know, Daddy," I lied softly. "It was in the dream. It was so real, it scared me."

Daddy put things back the way he'd found them. I was surprised; I'd expected him to take the box with him.

"Aren't we going to take the notes?" I asked, confused.

Daddy shook his head. "I'm going to call the police," he said firmly. "This has to be treated properly as evidence, or it won't do any good."

"But ... what if the police — like in the movies ...?" I wasn't quite sure how to ask the question and still sound like a little girl, especially since I _knew_ who in the police department was on the take.

Daddy sighed. "I'm sure that's just the movies," he said, but he sounded uncertain for the first time. That scared me.

"Is there anyone else you can call?" I prompted.

Daddy pulled me out of the closet and gently closed the door so no-one would hear. After a bit, Mommy came back, and then we left the church.

"It worked!" Tina said, surprised. "I didn't think it would."

"All you have to do with an adult is make them curious," I said smugly. It felt good to solve a problem without Tina's help.

"You don't want my help," she pouted.

I felt like I'd hurt her. "Yes, I do. I need your help all the time." I hugged her, and she seemed happy again.

Monday morning, Daddy didn't go to work. Instead, we all went to the city courthouse, where Daddy led us to the District Attorney's office.

I felt nervous at the building. It was, after all, where I'd been killed.

"I'm sorry you got killed here," Tina said sympathetically. "But I'm happy you're here with me."

I had to think for a moment. "So am I. You're my best friend. I never had a best friend before."

I felt a hug inside again. I could also tell that she was crying — happy tears.

The District Attorney was skeptical about our story, but that skepticism faded when Daddy and I both told two different people, in two different rooms, the same story at the same time. Even though I could tell they were nervous about the 'dream', they had enough information to at least check into things. Once they made that decision, things happened quite quickly. I guess he talked to a judge, who got a search warrant. Then they went to the church and got the box, just like I'd told them. Seventeen men got arrested in the following two days, including Mr. Scarletti and Sammy, and three police officers who'd been on Mr. S's payroll, including one lieutenant. I felt safe — finally.

The night after the police made all the arrests, I gave Mommy and Daddy good night hugs. I felt safe — or at least safer. I could tell Daddy felt less nervous, too.

Tina came to me as soon as I lay down in my bed. "Hi," she said, giving me a big hug. I could tell there was something bothering her.

"What's wrong?" I asked as soon as she released her embrace.

She was crying. "Peter said that I can't come back anymore. He said that you have to do things on your own now, and that I have to stay in heaven, where I belong."

I started crying. Tina was my best friend. She was part of me. I didn't know how I was going to do anything without her. "I don't want you to go!"

"I don’t want to go, either." We hugged and cried for a long time.

I made up my mind. "Tell Peter that he can take me to wherever I'm supposed to go, and he needs to let you grow up and be happy with your Mommy and Daddy."

Tina was shocked at my suggestion. "I can't tell him that! You don't talk to Peter like that."

"Can I talk to him?" I asked.

"No. It's one of the rules."

I suddenly remembered one of the tenets of faith I'd learned from my mother. We didn't pray to the saints. We talked with them, so they'd pray for us. I decided to try.

"What are you doing?" Tina asked in shock.

"I'm going to try to talk to Saint Peter, to see if he'll pray for us, to ask his boss to let us stay together." Tina was shocked at my forwardness in challenging what she thought was a rule.

I lay in bed, trying to remember some of the prayers my mother had taught me. I couldn't remember, though. Finally, I just prayed from my heart. As I prayed, Tina went away. Somehow, I could feel her with Peter, listening to my prayer.

That night, I didn’t have any dreams. I was very sad in the morning, and Mommy noticed. I decided to keep praying, asking that Tina be allowed to stay with me, so she could enjoy the experience of being a little girl and growing up. Every night, it was my nightly prayer, but the dreams didn't come back, and neither did Tina.

I gave up. I was Tina now, all by myself. Everything she'd taught me was being put to the test on a daily basis, especially when school started. Having my own memories helped; I was 'suddenly' a very good student. If I had a chance at a do-over, I realized that I wasn't going to blow it this time. But I was sad. I missed Tina.

One Saturday, as I was getting ready to go to Katie's birthday party, I felt particularly sad. I decided to pray once more as I got dressed.

Suddenly, I could feel her again. She wrapped me in a big warm hug, and she was beaming with happiness. "I missed you," I cried.

"Me, too!"

"Why ... why did you come back?" I asked hesitantly. Though I enjoyed her being with me, I was afraid of her having to leave again. Parting with Tina was very hard. "I thought it was a rule ...."

"Your mommy heard that you were praying, and asking that Peter pray for you, too. She was so happy that she was crying. She started praying. I wasn't very good at it, so she taught me. Then my Grandpa started praying, too, and your nana and pop joined us. Pretty soon, Peter was praying with us, too. This morning, he came to me and told me that his boss said I could come back to you."

I was so happy I was physically crying. "How long do you get to stay?" I asked hesitantly.

Tina bit her lip nervously. "I get to stay as long as you want me to," she said. "Peter said that I get to be your special junior guardian angel, if you want me." She was beaming with pride at being made a 'junior guardian angel.' It was a special honor for her.

I was so overjoyed that I hugged her, crying some more. "I don't want you to ever leave!" I blubbered. "You're my best friend."

"And you're my best friend."

I suddenly felt total contentment. I'd been feeling guilty about cheating Tina out of the joy — and pain — of growing up. Her first bra, her first date and first kiss, going to prom, going to college, getting married, having her own children — it was all taken from her. I was living her life. It didn't seem fair. But now, she was with me, and we'd get to do everything together. Suddenly, growing up as a girl didn't seem nearly so frightening.

That was more than three years ago. Tina is with me always. I can always touch her or talk to her, so I'm never alone. She's giggling with happiness today; Mommy is taking us shopping for our first bra. I'm nervous, but thanks to Tina, I'm not scared to death. It's more like nervous anticipation.

It's interesting — Tina won't let me do anything bad. She's good at her job of 'junior guardian angel'. I don't mind. I'm enjoying being a good kid, making Mommy and Daddy happy. Life is good. Her life. _Our_ life.

FIN