Thousand: Seven Hundred Forty-Seven

the angel checked in just when a tornado was bearing down on the U-Storr-It garage where the relic from Christ’s sacrifice was guarded with prayer and a Yale lock. The angel diverted the tornado to the nearby church where the congregation was howling up to heaven its determination to protect an old thread of cotton. Everyone in the church was killed. Except for the baby recovered from the rubble, crying out of hunger. This baby was the charge of no particular angel. Yet there it was. The other miracle baby, the one pulled from the flaming wreckage on Runway 5B