Funny, the meteorologist had neglected to mention anything about rain, let alone a storm, Patience thought, sweeping aside a lace curtain and peering anxiously through her bedroom window at the bruised sky above. She had nothing against the rain—if anything, the soft pitter-patter of a transient, harmless shower relieved her—but for as long as she could remember, tumultuous weather made her jumpy. Thunderstorms often caused her to leap right out of her skin, not from some crippling, undiagnosed fear, but from the knowledge that, without the slightest warning, something could go wrong.

She flinched as an impromptu bolt of lightning ignited the dusky skyline and inhaled with added deliberance. "It's just electrical discharge; it's just electrical discharge; it's just electrical discharge," she murmured repeatedly, the effective mantra gradually easing her discomfort. She stood, lips pursed, waiting for thunder's inevitable response. Judging from the lighting, Mother Nature was going to be putting on quite a spectacle tonight. Patience idly tried to guesstimate approximately how long it would last when the abrupt blaring of a telephone momentarily jolted her back to reality. She scrambled into the kitchen with as much grace as a disoriented rhino and, after fumbling with the receiver, hastily answered. It was her mother, Beatrice, on the other end.

"Patience, is that you?"

"No, it's the Sasquatch," Patience teased. "Who else would it be? You know Dad's away for the weekend."

Beatrice let out an audible sigh of exasperation. "Enough games, hon. I just called to let you know that I've taken the infamous graveyard shift at the hospital and won't be back until this morning. The trauma center is practically swimming with patients and they need all the help they can get." Another sigh. "I trust you can take care of yourself? You are seventeen, after all."

Now it was Patience's turn to sigh. She flipped open several cupboards, explored the contents of the refrigerator, and instantaneously noted the characteristic lack of food. Right on cue, her stomach growled. "Sure, they don't call me 'Miss Independent' for nothing. But, um, what should I do about dinner? The cabinets aren't exactly chockfull of goodies."

"Shoot, I forgot to go shopping. You can handle that, can't you? The store isn't far."

Patience bit her lip. She got her driver's license only at the urging of her parents, but they both knew she despised the actual task itself. Especially in such cumbersome weather. "I-I'm not sure that's such a good idea."

"Don't be such a ninny, Patience, for God's sakes it's only a little rain."

Patience could hear foreign voices shouting discordantly in the background, the unmistakable staccato of Crocs on a squeaky linoleum floor. "Ugh, I'm sorry, but I've got to go. Be a big girl and brave the weather for me, okay? I'll see you soon." Before Patience could so much as say 'goodbye,' her mother hung up. She cradled the phone in her hands for a few more seconds before placing it dejectedly upon the counter.

The matter was urgent—she had no doubt about that—so there was no reason to feel snubbed. If anything, she understood the circumstances of having a trauma nurse for a mother completely; she just didn't always see eye to eye with them. In the operating room, there was no time for family, no time for distractions. Patience unequivocally fell into both categories.

Seeing no other options, she slipped on a pair of gaudy rubber rain boots. They were an eye-popping shade of pink, a gift her father bought her when she was twelve and had no shame. Now, five years later, they were unbearably tight and issued the faint scent of mildew. Cramped toes and discernible odor aside, Patience just didn't have the heart to part with them. As she locked the front door and toddled towards her car, however, she started having second thoughts, and not just about the questionable-smelling galoshes.

The sky was black as pitch with a few noticeable stars that could only be described as vague, cream-white blotches. Patience took her time as she drove down the street, hands clutching the steering wheel at ten and two. Slow and steady wins the race, she thought, cringing as the sound of distant thunder pervaded her eardrums. She put on some jazz music, hoping the swinging, moody beats of Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong would drown out the storm and soothe her restless nerves.

She was humming along nonchalantly to Mildred Bailey's "There's A Lull In My Life" when an indistinct figure appeared out of thin air, falling from an imperceptible height and landing smack-dab on the hood of her Hyundai Santa Fe. Patience's foot reflexively hit the brake and the vehicle skidded to a strident halt, the pounding of her heart muffling the onslaught of rain and ragtime tunes. She'd barely made it past the apartment complex and already fate sought to destroy what little composure she possessed.

Remaining in her seat, Patience gazed out the windshield at the inanimate body now sprawled across the hood of her car. She pulled up to a nearby curb, hands trembling. It wasn't moving, hell, she wasn't even entirely sure it was breathing. "I've killed it," she muttered, toying apprehensively with her glasses as the gruesome epiphany struck her. She opened the door and inelegantly terminated the distance between herself and the obscure victim, gasping as her eyes adjusted and she was finally able to distinguish what it was. Even in the dim streetlight she was positive that what she'd stumbled across was not human by any stretch of the imagination.

"H-Hello?" No response. A soupy fog was beginning to settle in, and the rain didn't show any sign of letting up; she could feel it swiftly drenching her clothes and hair. Biting her lip, she poked its ribcage and subsequently heard a primal growl emanate from the organism's chest. At least it was alive.

She draped one of its arms over her shoulder and proceeded to lead it through the backdoor of her brownstone apartment. They trekked up the stairs, Patience carrying virtually all of the creature's weight—a seemingly impossible feat. Upon reaching her room, she consigned it gently to a sleeping bag laid out on the carpet floor, propping its head up with a pillow. Timidly, she perched beside it, head nestled in her knees, attempting to rationally digest the existing situation. When she looked up absentmindedly, she realized it was no longer motionless; rather, it stood slightly hunched over, dark eyes fixed acutely on her.

"I take it you're my rescuer." The voice was unmistakably male; gruff and straight to the point. "Either that or my kidnapper."

"I did not kidnap you...you—whatever you are," Patience attested, almost at a loss for words. He could talk! And he was falsely accusing her of a crime she didn't commit. Sure as hell didn't see that one coming. "In all honesty, you fell from the sky like a bizarre meteorite and hit my car. I knew you were hurt so I brought you here, plain and simple—"

"Gargoyle," he interjected, bringing her ramble to a successful halt before adding, "I'm a gargoyle. Now that that mystery's solved, might I ask the name of my 'rescuer'?" His gaze narrowed and a chill ran involuntarily down her spine. She refused to allow him the satisfaction of further intimidation, however...gargoyle, or not.

"Patience Jenkins." She crossed her arms over her chest, guarded. "And yourself…?"

He gave a cursory survey of the room—eyes sweeping over every inch with evident curiosity—until his scrutiny fell upon her again. "Brooklyn," he said finally, gravitating towards the window and wincing as he attempted to lift the curtain. Patience could understand why; his maroon flesh was shrouded in severe-looking wounds— gashes and lacerations of every shape and size. She imagined it was possible to construct a game of connect the dots with all the abrasions coloring his muscular frame.

"I have a first aid kit," she offered. His attention didn't waver from the window. "Are you looking for something?"

"Yeah," he muttered, plopping himself somewhat clumsily on the sleeping bag as Patience waved a pack of Band-Aids in the air. "Dawn."

"What's so important about dawn?"

"What's so important about those Band-Aids?"

"Well, they have Hello Kitty on them," she explained. "But if that doesn't float your masculine boat, I also have some decorated with the Disney Princesses."

"Hello Kitty it is," Brooklyn sighed, resigned to his fate. He had a feeling no amount of snappy retaliation was going to get him out of this.

Patience smiled and mentally added 'reasoning with supernatural creatures' to her currently unimpressive repertoire. It certainly made her otherwise bland talents, such as playing the sousaphone and cleaning the fishbowl, even more insipid by comparison.

"I was afraid to bandage you up while you were unconscious," she admitted, smattering his body with hydrogen peroxide in an attempt to disinfect his wounds. It was more than a little awkward—rubbing liquid on a perfect stranger's chest, even if there were cotton balls involved—so she figured easygoing chitchat might smooth things over.

"What, did you think I'd suddenly wake up and eat you?" he quipped. Clearly he had no qualms regarding the touchy-feely scenario at present; his smile was a mile wide. Patience frowned, her cheeks reddening.

"You can never be too careful, Beak-boy. This is New York we're talking about here; the city is a cesspool of fishy characters, and I like keeping all of my extremities intact, thank you."

Brooklyn chuckled darkly. "All right, I see your point, but don't think I'm going to forget that Beak-boy comment any time soon."

"I'm sorry, would you prefer Beak-man?" Patience smirked, dispatching one more Band-Aid on his elbow for good measure before leaning back and examining her handy work. "Good as new," she declared, patting his back and accidently provoking an audible groan. "Oops, you might want to take it easy for a few days. Someone really did a number on you and these injuries need time to heal."

"What are you, a doctor?"

"No, but given the fact that my uncle is a geneticist and my mom is a trauma nurse, I'd say medical expertise runs in the family."

"You forgot to mention your father, the brain surgeon," he joked—she was intrinsically easy to tease.

"Actually, he's a florist," she snickered, drawing her mousy brown hair into a chaotic bun and shedding her waterlogged galoshes and sweater. "What about you, got any family?"

"Yeah, a whole clan," he murmured, eyes instinctively flashing towards the general direction of the window, "a clan that's probably wondering where I am right about now."

In the midst of their little meet and greet, the rain had unknowingly adjourned. The sky was no longer an ominous shade of black, but a soft eggplant hue rapidly dissolving into a blend of rose quartz and lavender—it was almost morning.

"You never told me why dawn is so important."

"You'll find out soon enough," he said, smiling ruefully. "Let's just say I'm even more hardheaded during the day."

Within a few moments, dappled sunlight poured in from the window, bathing the apartment in delicious warmth. Patience looked away, shielding her eyes. "Well, Brooklyn, it's definitely morning now." When met with solemn silence, she turned to face him, stunned to discover a stone statue in his place. The resemblance was uncanny and she didn't doubt for a second that it was him, temporarily frozen, like some eerie life-size Italian sculpture coveted by museums. She placed a hand on his shoulder, unnerved by the feeling of dense rock rather than soft flesh. Whether it was the result of ill-timed hibernation or a strange side effect that came with being a gargoyle, she knew—in his current state of vulnerability—that she needed to keep Brooklyn safe.