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The singer on the radio crooned softly, asking God to send him an angel. The Angel in the room floated to the corner and disposed of the used syringe in a bin marked MEDICAL WASTE. There was no risk of death from the trace amount of pentobarbital left on the needle, but bloodborne diseases were always a risk, and even a simple infection could become very dangerous if one was unlucky.

Ralphie had been unlucky. The poor boy should have had another three years or more, but that doctor took him away from the Angel too early. Now he was a real angel, his spirit happily floating around in Heaven. Because, of course, all dogs went to Heaven.

How could they not? They were such pure creatures. They existed for no other reason than to love and be loved by men.

The Angel’s brow furrowed. Someone else had said that. Was that Shakespeare? It sounded like Shakespeare.

The Angel hummed a soft tune and caressed Ralphie’s picture in the locket. There were many other pictures of Ralphie around the apartment, along with all of his favorite things from life. His water and food bowls still stood on the kitchen floor to the left of the refrigerator. His leash still hung on the handle of the coat closet. His favorite toy—a bone-shaped rope toy that was bright green once but now dull and faded—sat on the Angel's desk.

“Never understood that,” the Angel muttered. “Why he liked that rope toy instead of a chew toy or something.”

The answer became clear almost immediately. Chew toys were popular with dogs because they mimicked the pained squeals of prey. Ralphie wouldn’t like that. Ralphie liked all creatures. He would never hurt anything.

“He was a good dog.”

The Angel stared at his picture for a moment longer before opening the top drawer of the desk and pulling out a new syringe. The next one was smaller. She would need a smaller dose, maybe ten cc’s. The Angel wasn’t sure it mattered if there was too much pentobarbital, but it was very difficult to come by this drug without raising suspicion. The Angel had one hundred twenty cc’s, and there was a strong chance that there would be no more after that. They was probably seven or eight more. Then the Angel might be done.

There were other ways to kill people, of course, but the Angel wasn’t sure it was possible to get away with killing people in any other way. And anyway, it wouldn’t send the same message.

The message was important. People needed to know. They needed to understand why.

The Angel had missed the chance to get Ralphie’s killer. Dr. Rogers had done the job himself by hooking himself to a rock-climbing anchor without testing the anchor first. It had snapped, and the good doctor had fallen three hundred feet and shattered his skull on some rocks in the Badlands of New Mexico.

“The bad doctor,” the Angel corrected. “The very bad doctor.” The Angel’s head tilted. “The very wrong doctor, in any case.”

The Angel pressed the syringe into the bottle of pentobarbitol and carefully measured 10 cc’s. The syringe prepared, the Angel carefully packed it in its travel case and recapped the drug.

“Careful, careful, careful, always have to be careful.”

The Angel muttered that word all the way to the bedroom but fell silent at the sight of the bulletin board. That board was important. It told the Angel who was still out there.

There were so many. Too many. It was impossible to get to all of them. The Angel would have to be content to get to as many as possible.

“Three down, maybe seven or eight more to go,” the Angel whispered. “And where do they go? Depends on the weight of their soul. Someone else said that too, but I don’t remember who. I’m a poet, and I know it, but I rarely show it.”

Once, simple wordplay like that would bring a smile to the Angel’s face. Once, Ralphie would be there to yip and smile and look at the Angel with such love. Such pure love.

“That’s all anyone needs is love,” the Angel whispered. “Just love, love, love, love, love. All you need is love. Love is all you need.”

The Angel continued to mutter on the way back to the living room. Sometimes talking helped. The Angel knew it looked insane, but it was better than the silence.

Poe. That was who it was. Not Shakespeare. It was a story where a man fell in love with a woman and said that she existed only to love and to be loved by him. Good story. The Angel read it once in high school.

The television was announcing the Angel’s most recent handiwork. Finally, they remembered to point out the crimes the dead ones had committed to earn themselves their fate. That was good. People were getting the point.

The doorbell sounded. The Angel answered.

“Hi! Pepper’s Pizza!”

“Yes, Pizza time. It’s a pizza frenzy.”

The delivery driver laughed politely. “That’ll be seventeen dollars even.”

The Angel put a twenty-dollar bill in the driver’s hand. “And tip too. Seventeen plus three equals twenty. A Lobster. A redback. A double sawbuck.” The Angel saw the driver’s nametag and added, “A Jackson for Jackson.”

The driver’s face instantly adopted the plastic smile of someone who realized too late that they were dealing with a crazy person. “That’s it,” the driver chuckled nervously. “Um. Thank you.”

“Yes,” the Angel said. “Goodbye, Jackson.”

The driver took off, moving as fast as he could without feeling impolite. The Angel watched him go and muttered. “A Jackson for Jackson.”

The pizza was all right. That was as good as anything got for the Angel these days.

The latest one’s face showed up on the TV screen, and the Angel smiled. Almost anything.