"So we are," said the Creator of All in a contented sort of tone, one which indicated that while He was glad to have arrived, He could have continued walking and listening and joking for quite a bit longer too. If He was aware of Ghastly's struggles with that small voice (and he probably was), He didn't let on in the least.

"This is a good place," He was saying as they rounded the corner into the carpark. "Good facilities, good staff. Overworked, though. Always are, poor buggers. Hoy!"

He nudged Ghastly suddenly with His elbow, nodding toward the taxi parked semi-illegally near the doors and the black-clad girl running through the entrance. Beside the cab was the driver carefully levering a man upright; a man also in black, limply holding a cane and leaning so heavily on the cabbie that the cabbie was basically carrying him. "Ain't that Solomon Wreath? My boy's told me about him."

Which meant the girl vanishing into the hospital was, of course, Valkryie, as Ghastly would know.

Maybe it was just chance. Contrary to popular belief, God did depend on chance sometimes. But maybe it wasn't, either. Because while the taxi-driver was trying to keep Solomon upright, the sorcerer weakly trying and failing to help, Solomon lifted his head and met the Old Man's gaze over the cabbie's shoulder.

He was ashen before, and that didn't change much. But his eyes widened and he swayed, his gaze locked on God. For a moment he trembled, his expression torn between terror and resignation; then the cabbie pulled him around to guide him toward the door and the sorcerer's stare was broken.

God nodded as if to Himself and moved toward the pair. "C'mon, lad. Let's go give 'em a hand."