The wounded angel sprawls in the road. Sid opens the door of his jeep, jumps out, and rushes to its side.
“Are you all right?” he asks, frantically. “I didn’t see you . . . there was all this grace . . . sparkles . . . confusion . . . don’t try to move that wing! It’s broken!”
The angel looks up at him. Its eyes are beautiful.
“I have been holding power over the world,” it says, in dulcet tones, “for three hundred years. Now you must choose who shall receive it next. Quickly! Now! Before I die!”
Sid panics. “Um,” he says. He scans the road.
“Quickly! Perhaps a political leader? A religious leader? Yourself?”
“Sharks!” Sid manages.
The angel expires.
“Phew,” says Sid. “Now at last the endless war between humanity and sharks can end.”
He gets back in his car. He drives home. There are more reefs than usual along the way.