At the Heavenly gate to the jungle conference room—thick slabs of ornately-worked gold depicted the three horsemen and one horsewoman of the Apocalypse when they were just children—a divine escort waited for Michelle’s arrival. The Golden Gates swung back to admit her to Heavenly In-processing. The four archangels were looking pretty bored, even though she wasn’t nearly as late as she’d intended.
“You guys really need to get a life. Form a barbershop quartet or something.”
“Wouldn’t work,” Gabriel replied. “I play trumpet. And Uriel can’t carry a tune to save his wings.”
“Heaven’s loss, dudes.”
Michael and his brothers brushed herds of minor officiates aside and made sure all the white paperwork was stamped with white stamps on white desks and duly authorized in white. Taking the “We’r
