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converting some souls with talk of forgiveness and redemption, and that isn't
good for the neighborhood.

Fuocorogo could see now as it tumbled down closer that it was a very
young child angel. He'd forgotten what they were called: Tutto or Futto or
Paraphim or Saniflan. This one couldn't have been more than four or five years
old. Its wings had sprouted, but weren't strong or large enough to accomplish
actual flight. The futto was flapping as furiously as he could. (He? Tumble,
tumble, turn, splay...yes, he) and he was impressively slowing the fall,
transferring it from a plummet into a leisurely spiral. This futto was not going
to die of impact. He would, however, sizzle to death in the flames of the River
Styx. He was too far offshore. It was inevitable this little angel was going to
burn. That is, of course, unless Fuocorogo could manage to catch him. Could
he? Would he?

“You, up there, little futto,” Fuocorogo called up to the poor tumbling
thing. “Can you see me down here?”

“Whoop, up, no, I'm looking up now....” (inadvertent somersault), “Oop,
now upside down. Yes, I think I see you. You're a lizard or salamander or
something?”

“Salamander, harrumph! I'm a dragon.”

“A dragon! Come on, there's no such thing.”

“Now, now, I could say the same thing about angels.”

“But here I am, living proof.”

“As am I.”

“Huh.”

“So, listen. You don't look like you're in control up there --”

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