Though she’d die in a matter of hours, Gemma kept her eyes as open as she could, focused on the guardian angel at the foot of her bed. She’d never asked the angel her name, but had always been able to see her somewhere nearby. During infancy, her beautiful friend would float above her wooden crib at night. Italian thunderstorms were rougher near the sea, but even Gemma’s parents thought it weird their child never cried. During adolescence, the bright-haired angel would appear at random, in corners of rooms, at the end of long hallways at school, from second-story windows when she’d go to the piazza. Always looking directly at the girl with eyes that felt warm.