I was flying over the Pacific Ocean. It was the next night. I had spent the day by my son's side, holding his hands, even as the doctors had raced in and out of the hospital room. Some screamed at me to get out of the way. One even shoved me out of the way. They fought for his life. They fought hard to save him. I watched from his bedside as the doctors used all their skill and medicines and machines. One doctor told me to expect the worst. To start making preparations. I told him to go to hell. My son, for now, was still hanging on. Still alive. For now. The ocean was black and infinite. Crazy, glowing lights zigzagged beneath the surface, some bigger than others, and I knew this was life. Ocean life. Some of the bigger shapes didn't zig or zag so much as lumber slowly through the ocean, sometimes surfacing and blowing out great sprays of water that refracted the moonlight. I flapped my massive wings languidly, riding the tides of night. Cold wind blew over my perfectly aerodynamic body. It had been a hell of a day. The black halo around my son was so dense that it was nearly syrupy. He had only hours to live, I knew it. Danny was by his side. And so was my sister and my daughter. Sherbet had stopped by, and so had Fang and Kingsley. Mercifully,