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“Feck it!” Vince cursed before taking off after Fergal. “I’m right behind you, lad!”

THE DANCE FLOOR OF THE CLUB—10:20 PM

While the five Disco Witches continued to twirl and flag, Max’s spirit swooped through the Promethean’s ceiling. Thunder clapped. Lighting cracked. Wind slammed the balcony windows open and closed.

“What is happening?” Ronnie shouted.

“It’s working!” Howie cried out.

“I’m weakening,” Saint D’Norman warned.

“Keep twirling!” Dory pleaded.

“We’re almost there!” Lenny hollered.

Sweat splashed halos around their bodies as they levitated what Ronnie believed to be nearly three inches above the dance floor. Most people in the club assumed the five had slipped on even taller platform shoes or had stepped onto a box. Others, who were dancing closer, would later credit the phenomenon to their party drugs and what a singular night of dancing it had been. Elena, obeying Howie’s warning, did not look back, but would later speak of the energy in the room and the bewildered and ecstatic expressions of the onlookers’ faces—those who, unbeknownst to her, were mesmerized by the blur of the crazed Disco Witches twirling and flagging between the worlds of the living and the dead. No one saw the bulge of their crossed eyes behind their lowered lids. No one saw their bluish flush under the disco lights. No one saw how close they all were to their own demise. If they only could spin their magic a little longer. They had the wind, they had the lightning. All they needed was the rain.

“Please!” Howie begged. “Please, Great Goddess Mother, help us!”

OFF THE PATH NEAR THE GREAT SOUTH BAY—10:21 PM

Now. Right now. The present. Tense.

What’s happening? You’ll see.

I’m confused. Just wait.

Joe floats over his convulsing body. Am I dead? I must be dead. I saw an interview once with someone who claimed they had died and gone to heaven. It was on Phil Donahue —or was it Oprah ? But I don’t feel dead. It must be a dream. Is it a dream?

A thought pops into Joe’s brain: Feeling brave doesn’t make you want to escape the world. Bravery makes you want to stay. A sense of absolute bliss like he has never known fills his heart. He looks around and notices the Meat Rack looks different—foggy yet sparkly, like the mist is made of diamonds. Gladiator Glen is gone. Thank the goddess. Hovering above the clearing, at the top of the birch tree are five twirling silvery balls of fire.

“Where am I?” Joe calls out, but there is no response. “Hello?”

“Hello,” a voice whispers.

Joe turns and standing over him is Fergal, face illuminated by the five twirling balls of fire. Joe gazes up into his blue-blue eyes, which are now fluctuating in tone, one moment Frostie Blue Cream soda, another moment indigo hydrangeas and then a shade of blue Joe has never seen before. And now he knows what he needs to know, what he has always known.

“You still love me,” Joe states matter-of-factly, surprising himself with his own brazenness. “There’s still a chance.”

After lifting Joe to standing, the vision of Fergal flies up, merging into the five balls of fire that spin into a vortex of swirling disco lights. Joe, still earthbound, feels the kiss of each dapple of light, like a promise.

There is a tap on his shoulder, and he turns, hoping it is Fergal. Instead, it’s Elliot, his late ex-lover standing before him as Joe had known him when they first met, so beautiful and wise with his green eyes, sandy brown hair, and enraptured smile.

“Elliot!” Joe throws his arms around him and is about to beg forgiveness for not having been a better partner, for not having been able to handle Elliot’s illness better, for not being brave when he needed to be brave.

“Don’t,” Elliot says before Joe can speak. Then, without saying a word, he relays a message to Joe’s heart, the contents of which are what Joe has always needed to know. Then Elliot places something in Joe’s hand—it’s the lost mixtape, Love Songs 1 . He embraces Joe in the warmest, deepest hug before rising up, like Fergal, into the fiery disco light vortex and disappearing.

Joe, feeling the deepest, most satisfying warmth in his chest, yells to the balls of light, “Take me too!”

Inside the belly of the celestial flaming vortex, he sees the faces of Howie, Lenny, Dory, Saint D’Norman, and Ronnie; Max is there too, dressed in drag like in the photo in Howie’s room.

“You’re brave now, Joselito,” Max whispers down to him. “You’re brave now. What would you really do with your life if you were truly brave?”

Visions of all he would do suddenly fill Joe’s brain with an astounding clarity. There is no plan to escape, there is no plan to return to Philly or to die a lonely and sad death because of regret and a broken heart. He is overwhelmed by a sense that he has seen both the worst that life has to offer and the absolute best—and he is no longer afraid. The universe opens up before him with all the possibilities of joy, meaningful sorrow, and the knowledge that he can handle anything. His head and heart fill with a million longings, loves, and dreams. Fear of losing, his forever bedfellow, is nowhere in sight. All the imprisoning guilt and darkness missing from his heart cause him to feel so unbelievably light, like floating dandelion seeds lifting up into the swarming, twirling, disco-ball conflagration above his head. He flies upward.

“Nope,” Max says, laughing. “Not yet, papacito.”

Joe feels a force pushing him back down to the earth.

“You look thirsty,” Howie says. “Would you like a drink?”

“Not now!” Joe yells, laughing. “I’ve never been this happy! I feel like I could fly to the sun! Please tell me this isn’t a dream! Look, Elliot found the mixtape!”

“He’s had enough now,” Dory says.

“I hope we didn’t go overboard,” Saint D’Norman adds. “He’s definitely thirsty.”

“Have some water, Joe!” Lenny tips a long-nosed watering can over Joe’s head.

Joe tilts his head up and opens his mouth wide. The water from Lenny’s can begins pouring into his mouth. It’s sweet and delicious. But then Lenny tilts the can more and the sweet water gushes down Joe’s gullet. He tries to close his mouth and pull away, but he can’t. He drops the mixtape. He’s drowning. Why would they drown you when you just found out how to be happy?

OFF THE PATH NEAR THE GREAT SOUTH BAY—10:22 PM

The next crack of lightning sliced open the belly of the cumulus cloud, releasing the downpour onto the Meat Rack. Fergal saw the flock of mourning doves alight on the top of a tall birch tree. Leaping off the regular path, he bulldozed straight through the bayberry and holly. The spiked leaves and thorns tore at his skin. Between thunder claps he heard Joe’s choking, causing him to run so fast it was as if he were doing the butterfly stroke through the gushing rain, arms slapping at branches, legs barely touching the ground, desperation crushing his lungs. Finally, there Joe was, lying on the ground, naked, wet, shivering, and coughing in a puddle of his own sick. But he’s alive.

“Joe!” Fergal dropped to his knees, pulled his wet T-shirt from his own back, and used it as a blanket over Joe’s naked chest as he helped him back into his white shorts. When Joe stopped coughing, he looked at Fergal and smiled, not with any sort of contrition, but like he was happier than he had ever been. “What the fuck happened to you?” Fergal shouted, shaking Joe by the shoulders. “Everyone’s been crazed looking for you! I thought you were dead!”

Joe pointed up at Fergal’s face and laughed. “Would you look at that?”

“Why are you laughing?” Fergal’s fists punched his own legs. “You are the most selfish piece of—”

“Sorry!” Joe blurted. “It’s just your eyelashes. They are so thick and beautiful and have these little waterfalls falling off them.” He squinched his face, failing to suppress another happy giggle. “I’m so sorry. Seriously, I am.”

“Well, you should be!” Fergal raged. “Why are you still smiling?”

At that very moment Vince showed up, having fallen way behind Fergal. His face was Pepto Bismol pink from the effort, and he was shivering from the cold rain.

“Well, there you are, lad,” Vince said to Joe, relief palpable in his voice. “You had us all mad with worry. For a minute I swore I saw young Fergal here lift off the ground and swim through that storm to get to you. Anyway, where have you been?”

“I got pretty sick on some stupid party drugs,” Joe said, as if it might be a slightly humorous anecdote. “I also maybe died a little. But I’m not sure.”

Fergal glared at Joe, then clenched his fists and stormed over to the edge of the small clearing. Rivulets of raindrops slid down his astoundingly beautiful, shirtless back.

“I guess I better stick to beer from now on, huh?” Joe chuckled nervously. “Hey, I’m sorry, but …” He let his voice trail off, seemingly stuck on what to say next.

Fergal, without looking back, snorted with derision. Then he picked up an old piece of rotted wood and hurled it into the Great South Bay. For almost a full minute the three men stood speechless in the rain, Joe looking at Fergal’s back, Vince looking awkwardly at the two men. The downpour suddenly slowed to a mere drizzle while jelly bean–size drops still plopped down from the forest canopy.

“Maybe I should leave you two alone for a bit,” Vince said. He pointed to the sky. “Would you look at that? Clear skies with a moon, full and white like a boiled potato. You’d never know there had been an eclipse, nor a flash storm. What a thing!” He looked for a response from the men, but none came. “Well, despite it all, you’re looking well, Joseph. I’ll see you back in the harbor, I hope. Try not to get into any more trouble, will ya?”

“Sorry about everything, Vince,” Joe said.

“That’s all right, lad. We all have our bad nights. I’ll go and tell the others the good news.” He crossed to Fergal and patted him on his back. “Ya did well, son.”

For a long time neither Joe nor Fergal spoke. The wind blew through the wet trees. The flock of birds flew off one by one. Joe’s joyful heart quieted as he finally absorbed the level of Fergal’s distress. How to make him understand?

“Would you mind walking with me to the beach?” Joe finally asked Fergal. “The mosquitos are killing me here. I need to tell you something important—about what happened. But I think I want to tell you by the ocean. Also, it will give me a chance to clean myself up.”

Fergal grunted and, without even looking back at Joe, began to walk. By the time Joe got to his feet, he was twenty paces behind. After ten minutes of walking, he found Fergal already sitting at the ocean’s bubbling edge, fiddling with a twig of driftwood. Joe first washed Fergal’s shirt of the mucky sick, then dove into the frothy waves and scrubbed himself clean, gargling with the saltwater. When he was done, he handed Fergal his wet shirt back and sat a foot away. He really wished to take Fergal into his arms and warm him with the heat of his newfound bravery. But the ferryman still wouldn’t look at him.

“So, what happened?” Fergal finally asked, his voice low and cold.

“Well, I was kind of a mess, so I got really fucked up on this trail-mix drug Scotty Black gave me. Made me all hyped up and crazed. Then I met the Gladiator Man … er … this guy, and he had this Blue Nitro stuff—”

“Who or what is a Gladiator Man?” Fergal wrenched the wet T-shirt between his fists, wringing the water into the sand in front of him. “You dating him now?”

“God, no.” Joe sniffed. “He was a total douchebag. Just some homophobic muscle head. At one point I thought he was hot. But I’m different now.” He looked at Fergal, hoping he’d look back, but he didn’t. “That’s the thing. Something crazy happened to me back there. I know no one is going to believe me, but I have to tell someone, and I want it to be you.”

“Why?” Fergal finally turned to look at Joe. His eyes were like blazing blue switchblades. “We’re not friends, Joe.”

Fergal’s words would have stung if it wasn’t for the ring of brilliant light encircling Joe’s heart. “I know I hurt you,” he said, “and I don’t expect you to forgive me, but can I tell you?”

“Go ahead.”

And Joe told him everything that had happened that night. He told him about his plan to escape the island without telling anyone, about doing all the drugs he could find and not caring if he lived or died. He told him of going with Gladiator Glen because the man seemed to hate Joe as much as he hated himself. And then Joe told Fergal about the dream—if it was a dream. He told him how he thought he might have died, but it didn’t matter, because either way he felt something miraculous had happened. He told him about seeing Elliot and the others, and how he had come to a new understanding about what had happened and could finally forgive himself.

He considered explaining how he also saw the end of time and how the ability to feel peace, joy, and bravery had been instilled permanently in his heart, but he was wise enough to know that no one, not even Fergal, would fully comprehend the momentous shift in consciousness he had experienced. Even he didn’t understand it, but he knew it was true.

So, instead, Joe jumped to the result, saying how he no longer wanted to escape or die and how he was excited by life again and was less fearful of the future, and planning to start pursuing his dream of going to med school as soon as he left the island. Then he explained how the rain saved him by making him choke and vomit out all the Blue Nitro. He watched Fergal’s face for signals—belief, disbelief—but there were none.

“So why are you telling me all this?” Fergal finally said.

Joe took a deep breath and dug his feet into the sand. “Because, well, I’m in love with you, Fergal. I think I have been from that first moment I saw you swimming in the ocean like a wild, insane dolphin with those weird webbed feet. I know you may not feel the same way right now, or like you did in my dream, but if there is anything like love for me left inside you—and I know there is, so you don’t have to lie—I’m asking you to give me another chance. I think we can make each other happy—or happy enough … but in a really deep and meaningful way.”

Fergal’s arms remained locked around his hairy knees while his blue-blue eyes fixed themselves on the farthest edge of the sea. He finally turned to Joe with a seriousness that prepared Joe for the worst—and still Joe wasn’t afraid, because he knew, with his new self, he could handle anything. “You hurt me so bad, Joe.”

“I know, and I’m sorry. It’s a lot for me to ask you to trust me. I get that. And I guess there’s always a chance we’ll hurt each other again. But I’m willing to risk it if you are. I’ll try my best, but all I ask is that I’m allowed to talk about it with you if I get afraid again—that we talk about everything. That we do this thing together.”

Fergal turned toward Joe, his lips parted like he wanted to say something, but also like he was afraid to say it. Joe knew what he was thinking because he was thinking it too; whatever words came out of Fergal’s mouth at that moment would change everything for them forever. For several more agonizing seconds they sat there, staring at each other in suspended animation, Fergal about to say something, Joe waiting and breathing into what he had learned in the dream. Whatever happens, it’s just the path. I can handle anything.

Suddenly, as if the ocean could no longer bear the suspense, a heavy and unexpected wave leaped up over them, bowling them over into each other’s arms and sending them tumbling into the shallow surf. When they stopped laughing, their eyes met.

“Okay,” Fergal said. “I’m in.” He leaned over and kissed Joe’s wet lips. As the kiss deepened, they fell back, Fergal on top of Joe, hearts pounding, tongues wrestling, hands grasping, pelvises thrusting.

“Let’s move up the beach a little,” Fergal said, standing up and offering his hand to Joe. “I don’t want you to drown while I’m kissing you.”

As they settled on a spot about ten feet above the surf line, Joe gave a little eyebrow wiggle. “You wouldn’t have any of those condoms on you, would ya?”

Fergal fished into the soaked back pocket of his board shorts, first pulling out a small bottle of lube and then a string of three condom packets, each decorated with an ancient helmet. “I hope you prefer Trojans over Gladiators.”

“I do.” Joe laughed. “I really do. But let me clean some of the sand out of my … you know, the important spots .”

Joe awkwardly pulled his sandy, drenched white shorts off past his aching erection and then swam to a deeper spot to get cleaned up. Fergal watched and smiled until Joe stumbled back onto the beach. There appeared to be no diminishment in excitement for either man.

“My turn,” Fergal said as he laid out his wet T-shirt on the softer, dryer part of the sand. “Meanwhile you can lie down here.” He started for the water, and just as he was nearing the line of bigger waves, he called out, “On your stomach please!”

Hearing those words made Joe’s entire body vibrate with excitement. He tried to act calm as he laid himself down belly first, butt up to the stars, easing his too-hard erection to the side for comfort. Then, craning his neck and shoulders, he watched Fergal yank down his board shorts, his perfect cock snapping to attention, its unhooded tip yowling at the moon. Smiling back at Joe, he did one of his almost acrobatic dives under a wave, disappearing for a disturbingly long time and then joyously rocketing out of the water, just like he had done that first morning Joe saw him on the beach. Joe inhaled and exhaled slowly, trying to calm his throbbing heart, trying to comprehend everything the dream had taught him and how everything that had happened in his life had led him to this exact moment, about to make love to Fergal. This is right, this is good, this is how it should be.

Fergal, having finished washing up, trudged up onto the beach. For a moment he simply stood there in the surf, completely naked and dripping, hairy and hard in all the right places, the ocean crashing behind him, the warm wind blowing across his long, lean body; the white moons of his muscular, untanned butt cheeks the brightest thing on the beach. The way Fergal was looking out over the water reminded Joe of someone who was praying. After a moment he turned and slowly walked up to where Joe was lying on his stomach and then fell to his knees and, like he had done that night in the attic, spread Joe’s ass cheeks and began using his mouth, tongue, fingers—and whatever other mysterious appendage might be available to him—to make Joe’s body swoon and shiver.

Like before, Joe’s mind dove beneath the surface of Fergal’s blue-blue sea, only deeper than before. With each magical maneuver of Fergal’s mouth on Joe’s body, sea creatures began floating across Joe’s brain: pods of smiling dolphins and whales; undulating manta rays; schools of glittering fish; seahorses the size of Labradors; and finally, as he neared the ocean floor, a small group of stunning creatures, half-human, half-fish, with muscular bodies, long flowing hair, and iridescent green and blue fishtails. They nodded knowingly at Joe, as if they were the only beings that could truly understand the depth of what he was feeling at that moment.

After what could have been fifteen minutes or an hour (he had lost track of time), Joe came out of the trance as Fergal stopped what he was doing and whispered, “Flip over. I need to look at that face.”

Joe complied as Fergal tore open one of the condom packets and stretched the latex sheath over his cock, rubbing it with a thick layer of lube. He then lifted Joe’s muscular legs so that his ankles rested on Fergal’s shoulders. Joe’s body shook from the slight chill in the air, but more from the anticipation.

“You all good?” Fergal asked.

“So good,” Joe said, meaning it. “I’ve never wanted something more.”

Fergal took a deep, smiling breath and pressed the tip of his cock inside Joe. Joe winced a little at the pleasurable pain of it. Fergal’s raised eyebrows signaled for Joe to let him know how he was doing. Joe nodded encouragingly. He wanted more. Fergal went a little deeper, then a little more, but before it went any further, Fergal stopped, which made Joe’s heart jump in a momentary panic.

“Is something wrong?” Joe asked.

“Just making a little adjustment I think you’ll like.” Fergal lowered one of Joe’s legs to the ground, while keeping the other on his shoulder. This allowed Fergal to lean his long torso over Joe so he could both warm him and press his mouth to his. Joe moaned in pure gratitude, both for the warmth and for how well Fergal already understood him. Fergal slowly moved deeper until, with an extra deep kiss, Joe’s insides opened and closed around Fergal, embracing him as if he was always meant to be there.

Lifting his lips only slightly from Joe’s, Fergal whispered, “Your dream didn’t lie. I love you, Joe.”

“I know,” Joe whispered back. “I always knew.”

They fell back into their kiss, which grew deeper and wetter, as if all the Earth’s oceans were flowing back and forth between their bodies, connecting them completely, fully, fearlessly.

They made love for hours until, utterly spent, they lay pressed against each other at the edge of the surf, the sea’s frothy tongue tickling their toes. Joe’s head made a pillow of Fergal’s bicep while one leg flopped over Fergal’s thigh to keep him warm. They breathed in the scent of each other’s sticky, sweaty flesh, felt the tickle of each other’s body hair, swallowed the sweet and salty spit from each other’s mouth. The Atlantic roared its approval, the wind whispered words of thanks, the screeches of the seagulls called out hallelujahs. And Joe knew, down to his bones, that if anything tried to tear them apart again, be it Gladiator, disease, or self-doubt, it wouldn’t stand a chance.

THE BALCONY OF THE PROMETHEAN—5:43 AM Monday morning

Beethoven’s Fifth poured from the Promethean sound system—DJ Mike’s closing signature. It had been hours since the sudden storm had ended. The quorum lay on the club’s outdoor balcony, skirtless and completely spent. The gold of divine guidance and wisdom encircled all of them with white flashes of light—a perfect connection to the cosmos. The Great Balance had begun to be restored.

“So, we’re one hundred percent certain?” Ronnie asked. “Joe is gonna be all right?”

“We’ve told you a dozen times already.” Howie took Ronnie’s hand. “He’s better than all right. He and Fergal are now up in the attic, all curled up in each other’s arms.”

“Thank the Great Goddess Mother,” Ronnie said, which still felt strange. Who exactly the Great Goddess Mother was, he still wasn’t quite sure, but he knew she had something to do with what had happened on the dance floor and in helping Joe home safely.

“You’re one of us now, Ronnie,” Dory said. “What do you think?”

He closed his eyes to tap into that same connected brain thing he had experienced earlier. It took him almost a minute to find the link, but when he did, he once again felt that whoosh of his mind quintupling in its expanse of what it could perceive. “This shit’s crazy.” He laughed before disconnecting from the others so he could think and speak as one individuated being. “How long does this disco witch thing take to get used to?”

“Oh, a little while.” Howie’s eyes suddenly lit up. “Wait! Listen!”

Inside the club, the DJ was transitioning from Beethoven into Natalie Cole’s “Miss You Like Crazy,” reminding the stragglers who hadn’t gotten his classical clue that the club was closing.

“The DJ chose that song for Max,” Howie said, and then sighed. “I say we all head home, take a few hours’ nap, and then catch the twelve fifteen ferry. We’ll need to help Heshy with memorial arrangements in the city.”

“Max’s ashes can finally be placed in the reliquary,” Lenny said.

“Of course,” Howie confirmed. “But maybe only a third. The rest I think we should spread in P-town and the Ramble in Central Park. Oh, and at least a thimble for the base of the Guatemalan volcano where he was born. He’d get bored being in one place.”

All five nodded, allowing Natalie Cole to sing the sad song of their hearts. The first ferry of Monday morning blew its horn announcing its arrival. Then, as if the five Disco Witches were of one mind, they leaned back against the wooden bench, sighed, and gazed up to watch the moon do her walk of shame across the early morning sky.

She’s beautiful.

She is.

I wonder where she left her crimson cape?

Somewhere in the Meat Rack, no doubt.

Does she even remember what she did last night?

Oh, most certainly. But she won’t tell anyone. It will be our secret.