A man jogging to his job interview, who dropped his phone down a sewer grate, hears church bells chime three times and knows he is not late. Most events do not require the intervention of angels. You don’t need long division to eat. You don’t need the elbow of an angel to safely cross the street. Miracles, by design, are showboats. Or else poorly time managed assistance. Prominence without provenance. When they must intercede, they prefer to be discreet.
They move swiftly—long, brisk strides—in a direct line to Elijah. Unbroken momentum and then at once none upon reaching him. Without an introduction:
They tip the wooden handle of their umbrella against Elijah’s chest (black and tightly closed (though it will very soon be used) because, as they understand it, an umbrella opened indoors is commonly believed to release curses captive within it).
“Take this. It contains no curses. When the rain starts, meet me two streets north of here.”