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Persephone answered with a chug of Coke, squinting when the effervescence hit her nose. She couldn’t argue with Parker’s assessment;

there was just more to it, was all, even if she couldn’t put her finger on it.

It wasn’t until years later that she could grasp what ten-year-old Persephone could not: Mama didn’t only want to see Persephone

do good. She needed her to do good. She needed her to do good so she could prove to the world that she hadn’t thrown away

her youth and good looks and self-respect on a wayward husband who stepped out the door forever. She needed her to do good

so she could prove that she, herself, wasn’t a waste.

Persephone knew the feeling.

The first time she’d uttered the words I’m going to be a movie star , it was to Parker. She was fourteen, and it was one of those nights they were lying on top of a picnic table in the park

near school, their hearts and faces to the starry sky. They liked to come here when visibility was clear and talk about their

crushes and if America really put a man on the moon when they said they had because one of Parker’s football buddies said

it was a lie. They’d bring the red and white cooler their dad used to pack his beers in when they’d all go out to the water,

before he decided he’d gotten his life all wrong and wanted to live as a no-strings-attached cowboy in Montana (or wherever—it

was Mama’s story and the state always changed and maybe she was being facetious when she said he was a cowboy. For all Persephone

and Parker knew, their father was an auto mechanic four towns over).

The night she declared she’d be a star, the cooler was packed with fake-ID-purchased Budweisers, though Parker only ever let her have half.

He ran a hand over his light brown waves and passed her the first can, as he always did, only this time his gaze lingered on her face before flicking downward, toward her hip, and all he felt but had said only once, after they’d first found out, was laid bare.

She saw the thoughts treading water in his eyes and felt her chest collapse like an abandoned cave.

Because for Parker to look at her like that meant he believed, like everyone else in Corpus Christi, that at fourteen, Persephone Cross’s best years were behind her.

To break the silence, Persephone said something about SATs and Parker mumbled something about studying for them next year

and football and Texas A it was because he didn’t think she did.

“I’m going to be a movie star,” she said then, but what she really meant was:

I’m going to matter.

10

John sat with Ruben at a small table in the far corner of Krispy Kreme. Ruben was on a lunch break, though it was early evening

so it was more like dinner. The donut shop was crowded, thanks to the “hot” light that had been illuminating the window for

the last half hour, and the air was filled with the heady aroma of yeasty dough and sugar. Bean fortified the front of the

table with shoulder-width legs and crossed arms. Occasionally, Ruben’s coworker, a plump young woman with large glasses and

deep dimples, threw glances John’s way, once handing a customer a kitchen towel instead of a box of donuts.

Ruben bit into his Shake Shack hamburger, chewed, and stuffed several french fries at once into his mouth.

John turned away. As at McDonald’s, when he’d first returned, there was something about the fried potato scent that turned

his metaphysical stomach. And there was something else: an illogical pang of guilt.

Ruben took another huge bite and followed it with a large swig of cola. “Dude, I still can’t believe you’re going to the Killshot

concert. I totally would’ve asked for time off.”

“Hannah wants me to meet him.”

“Try not to sound so excited. Look, you’ve gotta bring me back a concert tee or something. Signed. But I do appreciate you

coming by so I could give you the phoenix.”

John had only stopped by because Ruben had insisted John give the rapper a phoenix that Ruben had drawn during an unspecified

difficult time. His songs got me through, dude.

“Excuse me.” An elderly man in a live free or die baseball cap peered from behind the front of Bean’s left bicep. “I just wanted to say something?”

John nodded and the man sprang forward, a small box of donuts in hand. The man— Paul, Paul from New Hampshire —hadn’t traveled much and so decided to rent a Winnebago to drive cross-country since he and his late wife, Jean, had always

dreamed about it but never had.

“Not going to hold you hostage,” said Paul. “Just wanted to say that seeing you gives me hope that my Jeanie is still out

there now, waiting for me, watching over me. I’d shake your hand if I could. Also,” he added with a firm nod, “I wanted you

to know that I voted for Obama.” He paused and stared back at John, his eyes shining. “Did you see him?”

“Obama?”

“Jesus. When you died, was he waiting for you?”

John realized this interaction was requiring a lift far heavier than he wanted to bother with. “No. Nor anyone else.” No one you’d want to hear about, anyway. Imagine that—if the Grey Man were the thing waiting for everyone on the Other Side.

He gave a sardonic laugh and Paul squinted at him.

Whenever people asked John about what was on the Other Side, especially on television or in large groups or some other situation in which the interaction might make its way online, John gave the same vague description, one of peace, lots of light, lots of love.

.. He thought it sounded as if he were giving instructions for tending to a plant rather than tending to a person’s hopes, until he realized belatedly that they might be similar.

A later realization: in life, he likely had a black thumb.

“I’m not saying Jesus isn’t out there waiting for anyone,” John said. “I’m just saying... probably he isn’t.”

As Paul walked dazedly away, Ruben said, his mouth full of fries, “You’re a bucketful of rainbows.”

John glanced down at Ruben’s plate, at the glazed donut sitting beside the burger. “You do realize your diet is atrocious?”

“Most times I eat them. Sometimes I just look. Watching them go through the assembly line, rolling through the glaze waterfall,

coming out evenly glazed every time. So soothing. You should try it.”

John waited for Ruben to say he was joking.

“There’s something about the perfect circle, the logic, the peace, of the unbroken glaze. And when you get them all together...”

Ruben shook his head slowly. “You know how animals have names when they’re a crowd? School of fish. Murder of crows. Zeal

of zebras. You know what you call a bunch of Krispy Kremes? A host of donuts.”

“You made that up?”

“You like it?”

John gave a noncommittal, sideways wag of his head.

“You like it.” Ruben grinned and leaned forward. “How much could we accomplish if everybody just stopped to contemplate the

perfection of a Krispy Kreme donut?”

“Probably not the occluded arteries they’d get if they stopped to eat a host.”

Together, John and Ruben stared at his donut.

“They are,” John said, “uncannily round.”

“Near-perfect circles every time. It’s hard enough to draw perfect circles, but bake ’em? Someone put their ten thousand hours in.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve spent ten thousand hours drawing circles.”

“No, but it’s a legit pursuit. They do little exercises like that in art school.”

“Legitimate art schools have donut-drawing courses,” John said drily, “that you pay for?”

Ruben laughed. “I mean, you learn other things. Whatever you want. Like, SAIC basically lets you build your own curriculum.

They have this Area of Study thing where you’re doing a graphic novel concentration. All these classes—it’s nuts.”

He jumped up, taking John aback.

“Sorry, dude. They need reinforcements. That hot light’s calling the masses. And if Anna tries to give one more customer a

dishrag we’re going to need an intervention.”

11

En route to the concert, John noticed William frowning into his mobile while tossing the occasional worried glance in his

direction.

“What is it?” John asked. “Go on, it’s fine.”

William looked to Hannah, who gave a slight nod.

William turned his mobile to face John. A sharply dressed evangelical paced a stage, fired up about God, hell, and John, which

was to say he was fired up about God, hell, and the devil himself. Beside the preacher stood a small boy, young George, who’d

apparently visited hell during a tonsillectomy and met a world-famous singer who’d spread sin, amen, spread sin with her provocative lyrics and gyrating hips, amen. Of course, she was remorseful, as beautiful dead sinners are, and had sent young George off with a message, which the preacher

was currently going on about.

“I said she gave our young George a message, hallelujah! ”

A sharp punch from the organ, as if the preacher had said, Hit me one more time , and not the thing about the message from hell.

“She repented but only after she died, so it was too late. And it hurt her so much to know she couldn’t let her loved ones

know God’s truth because she missed her chance—can the church say amen?”

Young George stood at the podium, shifting his weight nervously from foot to foot, as if worrying that God might be keeping

score of just how many opportunities he himself had missed.