Maeve was out in the canola field when it happened. She'd gone to feed the chickens. On her way she stopped, at the highest point on the farm, to take in the land: the yellow leaf-shaped quilt bound by dirt roads, the little red-brick farmhouse slight as a coracle on open water. Both were familiar sights, but this time there was something new— about fifty yards down the slope lay a silo-sized barren patch, a bald spot among the flowers. She moved closer. There in the middle of the O'Connors' canola field, a crater shaped roughly like a seashell had been carved out. And in the centre lay the angel, dirty-winged and completely naked, yet wearing an expression of perfect serenity as if dozed off in a hammock. The surrounding earth had not been scorched by the impact, and indeed did not even seem violently scattered. It looked more like beachfront sand parted by a child's fingers.

Maeve ran to the silos. She called for her brother, but her brother was not at the silos. So she ran to the chicken coops, kicking up fine yellow powder in her wake, and called out again. He was not at the chicken coops either. Finally she ran all the way back through the field, up the hill and into the farmhouse, and by the time she was inside she was gasping for air and her white dress hung loose around one shoulder.

Judd, she called out.

What?

Judd, come quick. There's something out in the fields.

There's what out in the fields?

Something.

What kind of something?

Maeve took a deep breath. I think it's an angel, she said.

Judd didn't believe her at first. The idea struck him as ridiculous— of all the places on earth for an angel to land, the O'Connors' canola fields must be one of the least likely. If the location was random, it would almost certainly wind up in the ocean, or at least somewhere uninhabited. And if it was not random— if the point of impact was marked by some preexisting significance— then surely a farm in rural Saskatchewan made a poor candidate. Such an event ought to occur somewhere people would take notice, like Times Square or the Kremlin or the hill at Calvary. This is what Judd thought. Judd was very educated. He came expecting to find an odd-looking bird, perhaps a porcelain cherub. But when they reached the seashell-shaped crater and he took one look inside, his scepticism dissolved: he was no theologian, no expert in Renaissance art, but damn it he knew an angel when he saw one and this was an angel.

Yep, said Judd. That's an angel.

Will it be okay?

Judd crouched down, adjusting his glasses. Angels are immortal, he said. Look. Still breathing.

Oh, Judd. What do we do?

Go and fetch a blanket.

Maeve fetched two. They carried the angel between them on the blankets like a noble in a palanquin. Once they made it back to the farmhouse, Maeve nearly collapsed.

I do wish Pa was home, she said.

Well Pa isn't home.

Maeve went to the sink and washed her face in her hands. He'd know what to do, she said.

No. This is a new situation. There's no kind of training for this.

You knew to get a blanket. You weren't trained to do that.

Right, said Judd. That's the difference between training and education.

Oh, phooey, said Maeve, who against all her parents' teaching took a great gulp straight from the sink. Neither sibling was at that time paying attention to the angel, set like a tufted rug on the kitchen floor, whose eyes had fluttered open.

A small voice sounded: Where am I?

Oh goodness, said Maeve. Oh goodness gracious me. She and her brother both rushed to the angel, who had drifted back into sleep, shifting a little on the blanket.

Judd stroked his beard. All right, he said. Time to move. Let's go to my room.

Maeve looked up the stairwell, which suddenly seemed so long and to twist so awkwardly. Why your room?

I figure he might be more comfortable there.

Wait, said Maeve. He?

Both siblings took a closer look at the figure lying before them. From first glance in the crater, it had been obvious that the angel was without genitals. Maeve had inferred femininity from the flowing golden-red hair and soft, triangular chin. Judd deduced the opposite from the lack of developed breasts. On closer inspection, however, each realised that the other may well have been right: there were after all men with long hair and gentle features, and women with flat chests. This did not mean either would admit it.

There are two named angels in the Bible, said Judd. Micheal and Gabriel. Both male.

That's only two, said Maeve.

There's also the devil, if you count him.

Maeve looked down at the angel. Seems inappropriate to bring him up now, she said. And that's still only three.

All right, Maeve. Do you have a better idea?

Maeve twirled her hair around her finger. I don't know, she said. How do you know what sex someone is if they haven't got their bits?

It's their chromosomes, said Judd.

How can you tell what those are?

You need a microscope. And some other stuff besides.

Maeve sighed. That's no good. We haven't got a microscope.

No.

Can't we just use my room? It's right there.

Judd realised his arms were getting sore. All right, he said.

The angel woke up about an hour later. Judd was upstairs, having declared that he wanted to look some things up on the computer, but Maeve had sat in her room all the while. She called out the moment she noticed the angel's eyes darting in bewilderment around the room. Judd raced down, sounding rather like a bowling ball dropped from the top of the stairs.

Maeve stood, leaning over the angel. Hey there, she said. Are you all right?

I don't know where I am, said the angel, though not quite in a tone of confusion or concern— it was more like mournful acceptance.

You're in my room, said Maeve. That's my bed there.

Judd came in then. What she means is that you're on the O'Connor canola farm, he said.

Oh, said the angel, who tried to sit up but collapsed back down against the pillow. Where's that?

Southeastern Saskatchewan. I can give you the latitude and longitude if you like.

But the angel just stared blankly.

Maeve asked: Is there anything we can get you? Water, some food?

No. I just need to rest a while, I think. The angel's gaze ran over Maeve's room once more— over the elliptical mirror hanging unevenly on the wall, the collection of perfumes on the vanity table, the bookshelf chock full of Harlequin romance— and came to rest on a bottle of exfoliating scrub on Maeve's dresser. The label read: CLEAR & RADIANT.

Maeve noticed the angel eyeing the bottle with a curious expression. She went to pick it up, and asked: Is this what you're looking at?

Yes, said the angel. That might help. It says it is radiant.

Oh, said Maeve. So it does.

I did not know they could get radiance in a bottle, said the angel.

I think that's just marketing-speak, said Maeve. You know, like it's supposed to make your skin look radiant.

The angel's brow furrowed. How can it be radiant if it contains no radiance?

That is what we call a category error, said Judd. Judd was very educated.

The angel sighed, curled up in the bed, and said: I find this all very confusing.

Judd nudged his sister with his elbow. We need to talk, he whispered. They left Maeve's room.

About what? asked Maeve.

About him.

We still don't know if he's a he.

I thought we agreed he's a he.

No. We agreed we don't have a microscope.

All right, Maeve, it doesn't matter—

We could just ask. Why don't we just ask?

Fine, said Judd. He went back to Maeve's room, and asked: Excuse me, but would you mind letting us know if you're a he or a she?

And the angel looked up in bleary-eyed confusion, and said: I'm an angel.

I guess it doesn't matter, said Maeve.

Right. Let's go upstairs.

Upstairs, Judd led Maeve into his room. It was unadorned: simple, angular furniture, nothing left out, not even a pattern on the sallow wallpaper.

I've been doing some reading online, he said, speaking in a low whisper. Incidents like this have happened before. It's all anecdotal, of course, but that's the best we have right now.

How did things turn out?

It depends, said Judd, but it seems there are two relevant facts. One, an angel brought to someone's home cannot leave it without the host's permission. They're rather like inverse vampires that way. And two, an angel who enters a contract with a human is absolutely bound to it.

Oh Judd, said Maeve. Don't tell me you're planning something nasty.

I'm planning to leverage these facts. Here's my idea. I'll tell him that, for each favour he does for me, I'll give him a certain number of points: one for the first favour, a half for the second, a third after that, and so on. Once he's obtained a majority of the possible points, I'll let him go. Now, how many do you think that would be?

One plus a half plus a third, and so on… something like five?

Judd grinned. That's just the thing, he said. It's infinite. He'll never get a majority. It's called the harmonic series, and it diverges. Judd was very educated.

I don't know, Judd, said Maeve. It doesn't exactly seem saintly.

Think about it. If we weren't supposed to come up with bargains like this, why would angels have to follow all these rules?

Maeve thought about it. I guess there's that, she said. How are we going to explain this to Pa?

You just leave that to me. Judd went back downstairs to Maeve's room, and woke the angel with a gentle rapping on the doorframe.

Ah, said the angel. Thank you for your hospitality. I'm feeling much better than I was. I think I'm ready to leave, if that's alright with you.

About that, said Judd. And he explained his scheme, using language much more roundabout than what he said to Maeve so it would be harder to follow.

Very well, said the angel, who had been stretching and only halfway paying attention. I agree to those terms.

The first favour Judd asked was for his overbite to be fixed. The angel complied, and with a wave of the hand, Judd's overbite was gone. Next he asked for money, but apparently the angel couldn't do that. Judd was, however, able to obtain both a first edition of Wittgenstein's Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus and a dictionary of the hitherto indecipherable Minoan Linear A, both of which appeared on Maeve's bookshelf beside the Harlequin romance.

The angel asked: How many points do I have now?

Eleven sixths, said Judd.

I see. Leave me now. This is hard work, you know. Three favours is enough for one afternoon. Satisfied, smirking, Judd returned to his room for a nap.

While he slept, the angel worked out the sum all the way to its fifteenth term, and— though unable to prove it— began to despair that it might grow without limit. On the sixteenth term, Maeve came in.

Oh, said the angel. Hello.

Hello, said Maeve. How are you holding up?

The angel let out a sigh, and said: I'm never going to get enough points, am I?

Maeve felt herself flush. No, she said. I'm sorry.

I should not have agreed to this.

No. To be honest, I thought angels would know about mathematics.

Oh. There's an angel who knows about mathematics. But not me. I only know about ornithology.

Oh. Maeve shuffled on her feet. Say, she said, when Judd was explaining how the points work, what exactly did he say?

I believe he said: one point for the first favour, a half for the second, a third for the third, and so on.

I see. Did he say exactly what and so on meant?

No, said the angel. No, I just assumed.

He'd probably say it was implied. But it isn't, really. So actually, you can assume that and so on means anything you like. Including that every favour after the third is worth exactly zero points.

I suppose I can, said the angel. But then, I'd still need the permission of the host to leave.

Well. You're in my room. And you have my permission. Maeve went to open the window. Almost instantly, but without kicking up a disturbance in the sheets or the air, the angel flashed outside, hovering there on shining white wings. Maeve felt a sudden weight in her hand. When she looked down, she saw a yellow-green budgie rubbing against her palm.

Thank you, said the angel. This is Phillip. You can feed him canola seed. Maeve blinked, and in the time her eyes were shut the angel vanished.

Judd came down a few minutes later. The bed was empty, and Maeve was sitting next to it with Phillip the budgie perched on her shoulder. He did not yet know that his first-edition Tractatus was a defective copy with ink spilled all over the text, that his dictionary of Linear A was written in an undeciphered Mesoamerican script, or that he now had a slight underbite.

I'm afraid the angel's gone, said Maeve.

Darn it all, said Judd. I really thought that would work.

It was a good try.

The best I could have come up with, really. Given what I had.

Indeed, said Maeve. Guess those people on the Internet were wrong.

Judd nodded. It was anecdotal evidence, he said. And in the end, you can't trust anecdotal evidence. That's all there is to it. Judd, as we know, was very educated.

Quite right, said Maeve. And she turned to the window, and smiled.