She fell asleep, book on her chest and right hand palm open by her shoulder, in the manner of a stone bishop in a high cathedral alcove – except horizontal – that same cleric, toes pointed, in the dank vault under the church – and slept until a jet engine screamed in the night. A gargoyle knotted its claws around her ankles. Lightning snapped; rain poured in rivulets down the channels of its snout. She gaped. The book lay on her heavy as a sermon and the granite folds of past sins encased her thighs. The beast, quizzical by nature, cocked its head.