The Angels are white, the brightest white Ella has ever seen. They come when she is awake to swirl around her. Slowly, they bend down, touch her head and her wrist, straighten up again, and drift off into the mist. Ella can never make out their words through the haze, but she becomes familiar with many of the blurred voices that echo through her head. Vision filled with a soft glow, Ella can't see the faces of her Angels, but she knows when they are there, hovering on their feathered wings. Beeps and dings from the surrounding machines fill her little room in the clouds with a symphony of single-note tones, and a slight ache in her left elbow encircles the needle puncturing her skin. Milky liquid drips down the connected tube all day, through the needle's point, and into Ella's blood. Most days, Ella can hear the whispers of the Angels murmuring around her, floating above, with their faces looking down on her prone form. On days when she is too tired even to listen, she can feel the air that their robes blow against her as they drift around and around. Everyday the Angels come for Ella, and everyday Ella waits for the Angels to fly away and send her home.