Dahlia leaned forward, her eyes wide. She was remembering something, something that could not possibly have happened. It was not an unfolding story, like a dream. It was a memory. She had the whole of it, from start to finish.

She felt sharp points along her spine, one in the back of her head, but not sharp enough to pierce her. She was tied to something, like being tied to a stake except it was curved. She was arching back, stretching. She could see this soldier. Sunlight was reflecting off his gold armor, morning sunlight. She felt the presence of people to her side, but she did not turn her head. She didn't know if she could turn her head.

"Was I terrified?" she thought. She could not remember feeling fear, even when she started to lean forward, when the whole apparatus started to lean forward.

A loud noise right behind her, all around her. A rush of wind. She was in the middle of an explosion, but there was no pain. She stood up straight, freed from her bonds.

"This must be a strange time for you," said Johnny.

"Yeah," she answered, rubbing her wrists, smearing blood onto them.

"I mean, you had your life, right? You probably figured you're one person, you've got one life."

"And why would I stop thinking that?" she asked.

"You tell me."

"No," she said, feeling fear for the first time since she started bleeding. "You tell me."

"You have the Stigmata," he said.

"The what?"

"You have the wounds of Christ. There's more to you than just you."

"But I'm not Christ," said Dahlia. "I just met Christ."

"Honey, we're all Christ. But that's not what I mean. Christ was not the only person who received the Stigmata."

"Um ... Agnes of God?"

"The saints. Well, some of them. St. Francis invented the genre."

"You mean the one with the animals?"

"You're not Catholic, are you?" he asked.

"Um ... Baptist, sort of."

"The Lord works in mysterious ways."

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