The Frisbee hit Chilton in the throat. He wheezed and hacked out a cough, doubling over in an overly dramatic fashion -- yes, Gabriel had rendered him breathless, but it wasn't as if permanent damage had been done. Clutching one hand to his left knee and the other hand to his throat, the psychiatrist hisses out until his airways are functional once more -- and then he darts up, spine straight, to glower.

"Why."

His first, in-the-flesh word to the angel.