We hunted angels every summer for as long as I can remember, the last weekend of July filled with boastful talk of kills and wingspans. My brother and I camped down at the lake each year at a spot our father favored before he passed away. The angels migrated south toward the Gulf Coast in the late summer, and, without fail, we'd see several choirs wing by in formation overhead.

My brother insisted we take his son along on our last trip. I told him I didn't think it was a good idea, that maybe he should wait a few more years. Kids are different these days, more sensitive.

"The air is filled with people," said Heaven Rains.

"I'm sorry?" answered Mangala Norbu.

"People," she continued. "Bits of them. It's what makes your skin sizzle, your hair stand on end. Whizzing through space, filling your lungs, you're surrounded."

Mangala gazed out the microglass windows of the Svarga Pos monastary. It was snowing again. She pulled her soft cerulean robes tightly around herself, even though climate control was functioning perfectly, producing a flickering series of fire illusions. "Yes," she answered. "Everything is all part of the same. Water and earth. Wind. Humanity."

It was a Tuesday when Mr George Barraclough noticed a Nereid sitting on the banister of the Wool Exchange. He knew it was one because he had studied Ovid at Bingley Grammar School. He supposed it was rather pretty, but not in a way that was condusive to a morning’s trading in Swaledale and Romney Marsh.

“Do you mind not doing that?” he said, trying to keep his eyes on the Golden Jubilee window. The Nereid’s dress looked distinctly like underwear and he didn’t think Mrs Baraclough would approve.