With sufficient convincing you can lure an angel into a small metal box. You tell it: there is room for you here. Can’t you shrink down to fit? The angel will look at you dubiously. But it must respect your privacy and so cannot read your mind and see your thoughts.

Okay, the angel says. It’s a very small box.

You know that as well as I do.

I can’t shrink, the angel explains. That’s not how this works.

Does conservation of mass apply to divine creations? Apparently so. Everything must go somewhere. It’s more of a folding than a shrinking. It does my head in, the angel says. It becomes very hard to think. Unrelated thoughts append to their neighbors. Soon the train runs its course and all becomes static.

By now the angel has stuck its foot into the box and prodded the four corners of the face furthest from it. The box has mesh walls and a hinged door with holes on its front so that you may see into it. You’ll be able to breathe, you say. See? There’s vents here, all along the top. Take a deep breath. Would you like a tissue?

No thank you, it says quickly. How about we get this over with.

You must take care not to get too excited. Remind the angel gently of its purpose. You may place your hands upon its shoulders and push to speed up the process. Keep pushing. Its toes may have begun to melt into the black casing, but don’t be alarmed. My legs, the angel frets. Can’t you see them bending? Only a quarter-way there. Affirm its pain and keep pushing. Through the chest. Make sure not to cover the wing-slits as you push. Keep pushing. Feel its knees through its chest. I love you. Please don’t touch that. I cleaned up last week with the detergent under your sink. Keep pushing. I love you. Perhaps you’ve had enough of divine sentimentality. Try to tuck the head inwards so that the forehead bumps squarely against the knee. Ouch! Keep pushing. I love you. Won’t you stop? Keep pushing. One great wing, beating your elbow purple. Oh. Almost in. Once more. Keep pushing. Shut the door. I love you.

One minute. Your arms hang limply from your shoulders like rope. Thank goodness the cabling’s been set up already. Feathers have begun squeezing out the box’s mesh walls. Thirty seconds. Tell it you have to go somewhere. The hospital; my humerus is broken; I have to go. Turn out the lights. Maybe you can dial 911 with a broken arm. Now would be a good time to throw yourself down the stairs and forget this place ever existed. Goodbye, angel.

OK, the angel says. The box shakes and the light blinks, steady, steady, green. 200. Okay. I love you.