The sirens get louder and louder as the approach the quiet suburban street. Paramedics rush into the house with a stretcher, and police put handcuffs around the little girl’s momma. She sobs and says she didn’t do anything, that she didn’t know what happened. In the ambulance the EMT holds the tiny girl’s hand and starts to cry.

It’s sunny and warm where the girl is. She has wings and is running and playing with other boys and girls. Her smile lights up the bright place and she walks hand-in-hand with the man with scars on his hands – the man who loves her. She looks down at a familiar place where a crowd gathers in between the trees, in a spot where the leaves have decorated the ground with orange an red.

The people stand around a shiny stone. On the top is an angel, carved in the same hand as the name Liabelle Rachel. The mother of the boy whispers, “She was a strong little girl. I wish I had of told her she was beautiful.”

The priest closed his Bible and said as his last words, “She’s an angel now.”