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Persephone snorted. “Which would amount to as much as the saint card.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, what do you think Jesus would do?” When he didn’t answer, she continued. “You know, if Jesus and a young girl were

traveling across the desert and they stumbled upon a crew of thieves and rapists and murderers. You think Jesus would blast

them to pieces or, I don’t know, at least punch one? There was something about him tossing the moneylenders from the temple,

but maybe he just made a scene. Point is, I can’t imagine Jesus hemming someone up. What I can imagine is Jesus remaining

calm and the girl being on the verge of peeing herself. And he’d probably sit on a rock and tell the bastards a parable or

something.”

It was true; Jesus had never come across as a smiter.

“And they’d laugh at him as they pulled the girl off into the darkness behind some boulder. Am I right?”

But John wasn’t Jesus. He was hardly the type to stick his nose in, but he wouldn’t try to reason with a pack of brutes. On

the other hand, he’d be helpless, wouldn’t he? Even if he could shove a thug or two, he doubted he could punch one hard enough

to make a difference. In the end, he would have accomplished about as much as Jesus would have in the situation, minus the

fireside story.

“We have Ruben,” he offered.

“He weighs less than I do.” But there was a tenderness in her voice when she said it.

“Well, I wouldn’t let something like that happen.”

She scoffed. “Come on, John.”

“What?

“You wouldn’t do a damn thing, because even if you could... I don’t know.”

“Tell me.”

She didn’t, not immediately. And then: “All right. You’d be true to brand. Ambivalent.”

“You can’t be serious. During an attempted sexual assault?”

“OK, not exactly. I don’t know. I just can’t see you...” She shook her head.

“Go on.”

Her fingers were gripped tightly over the steering wheel. “I just don’t see you going out of your way, OK? Putting yourself

out there for somebody else.”

“Are we not going to your hometown right now?”

“Oh, please! Don’t pretend it’s a favor. At that charity dinner, you said no. Then you started to disappear. Then Ruben discovered

we could help you not disappear, and you changed your mind.”

“I’m pretty certain you don’t want me to disappear for your own reasons.”

“And yet,” she said, “I was prepared to make this trip on my own anyway.”

“By the way,” John said, his meanness gaining momentum, “Ruben would’ve stayed with me in LA. If I’d said I wasn’t coming.”

“You’d like to think he would. Then again, if it weren’t for the Overlays, you probably wouldn’t care if he did want to stay,

would you? You don’t care about anyone but yourself. Not really.” She laughed bitterly. “It’s OK, John. Takes one to know

one.”

They rode in silence, the darkness deep and otherworldly.

“If you’re honest with yourself,” Persephone said after a time, “you know that Ruben would’ve come with me whether you came

or not. He’s not like you and me.” She glanced at Ruben through the rearview mirror. “Have you ever even really paid attention

to him? Not his so-called powers or his comic-book theories, but to him ?

You know, before us, he didn’t really have friends.

” It was more a question than a statement.

“And with his family out of the country... He’s lonely.

You can’t tell until you’re around him for a while—like if you have a real conversation with him. That’s why you don’t see it.”

But John did see it, saw how Ruben had a way of being intensely present when John spoke to him, as if John were the only person

in the world who mattered.

“He genuinely just wants to help,” she said.

“It’s a good trait.”

“Is it?”

“So I’ve heard.”

Persephone tapped her fingers against the steering wheel.

“Nervous about returning home?”

“It isn’t home. Hasn’t been for a long time.”

“Perhaps your going back will be easier than you think. Your family might really miss you.”

“Some things can’t get right once they’re knocked down. Dominoes.” She slowed the car. “Here we go,” she said, her voice clipped.

“Rest stop ahead.”

“We’re pulling over?” Ruben’s voice was raspy with sleep.

“Yeah,” Persephone said as she pulled into a park. “John needs another Overlay. He’ll need one in another twenty-four hours,

too.” She turned to John. “Don’t argue. You know you need it. It’s why you came.” Her voice was absent of hostility now, had

become flat with pragmatism.

Ruben turned to John. “Oh, wow,” he said, when he registered how much John had faded. “I got you, dude.”

Persephone turned off the ignition. “Don’t worry. I’ve got this round.”

23

Pink and orange fingers of light stretched themselves across the horizon.

They’d spent the night in a cheap off-highway motel and now they sat in a near-empty diner, one of those tiny caboose-types with a gravelly driveway to fit a handful of cars.

Persephone wasn’t hungry, but that was the thing about diners: you didn’t have to know what you were in the mood for before you walked in; all you had to do was take a seat, breathe in the heady blend of lettuce à la ketchup à la French onion soup à la fried chicken with a side of silver dollar pancakes, and something would call to you eventually.

Ruben clapped his hands together and rubbed them like he was sitting down to a feast instead of a streaky table that smelled

faintly of dish towel. “I’m having what the locals are having.”

“The closer we get to Texas,” said Persephone, “we’ll be seeing chicken-fried steak on the menu.”

“Never tried it,” Ruben said. “But I always wondered, is chicken-fried steak chicken that tastes like steak, or steak that’s

cooked to taste like chicken? I mean, it’s confusing—is it just me?”

“It’s steak fried up like chicken,” Persephone said. “And yeah, I can see how it’s confusing.” She turned to John. “How about

you? Ever tried it?”

The waitress came by with scratched plastic cups full of ice water and walked away.

“There were bits in the sauce,” he said slowly. “White sauce. Peppery. Chicken-fried steak. But I don’t remember where...

The bits were soft.”

“Pork,” Persephone said. “There’s pork in classic country gravy. So chances are, you were somewhere in the South.”

“Corpus Christi, maybe,” Ruben said.

It was a stretch, but John nodded slightly, his gaze blank and a little confused.

Is this what happened when you died? Was there nothing of yourself left, nothing of who you used to be? Who were you if you

couldn’t remember? Once, Persephone had accompanied Christine to a conference near LAX airport. There were hundreds—maybe

thousands—of people. Some were authors of self-help books; some were what Christine called scientists and what Persephone

only grudgingly agreed to refer to as pseudos; some sold crystals, others orgone pyramids and discs. She and Christine watched

a panel discuss the afterlife, which, to three of the five panelists, was a place of great peace and joy and oneness.

In high school Persephone had heard about this connectedness theory, but those guys were shroomed off their asses.

Listening to the panelists discuss death and what came after only made her want to leave, and she would’ve, if Christine hadn’t been bitching (albeit rightfully so) about paying so much for their weekend passes.

Afterward, Persephone didn’t explain to Christine how disconcerted she was over the entire theory.

Persephone didn’t want to become one with the light, one with everyone else.

She didn’t want to envelop herself in some blank void of peace.

It sounded a lot like losing herself, like becoming nothing.

Not that traditional religion was any better.

She distinctly recalled sitting in her mother’s white clapboard Baptist church and hearing the preacher go on and on about how heaven would be so much better because up there with the Father, it’s gonna be church all day, every day, hallelujah!

The congregation erupted in amens and applause and the organist punched a few keys, and all Persephone could do was think about how soul-numbingly boring that

would be. It was hard enough sitting through three hours of church service. So far, everything Persephone had ever heard about

the afterlife made it sound a lot like a movie she’d rather skip.

“S’cuse me.”

All three turned to the husky voice. The bearded middle-aged white guy sitting in the booth behind Ruben was turned completely

around and staring at John. “You’re the dead Black man. The ghost. Well, I’ll be. You look more solid on TV.”

“Sorry, sir,” Persephone said, going into buffer mode and wishing again that they hadn’t left Bean back in LA, “but we’re

in a rush and we don’t have a lot of time to eat.”

“They are not going to believe this,” the man said, ignoring her and pulling out his phone. A Confederate flag was tattooed

across his hairy wrist. “Don’t worry, I’ll just lean back like I’m taking one of those selfies, and you just sit right there

in the background.” The man winked at Persephone. “Unless you want to take the picture, sugar lips. Or maybe get in it yourself.”

She resisted the urge to tell him to screw himself.

After taking his photographic evidence, he turned to face them again.

“Looks like you’re the real thing,” he said to John, smiling.

At least, Persephone thought he was smiling.

There was a lot of beard. “Goddamn. Boys at work got it six to one you’re some kinda hologram.

A government test dummy for some advanced warfare shit.

” He looked to Persephone. “Pardon my language, sweetheart. But it looks like I got some money comin’ to me. ”

“Congrats.”

“You’re the girlfriend, right? Fair maiden, black steed,” he said, laughing at his own joke.

Persephone wanted to punch him in the face.

The man frowned at Ruben. “Don’t know you, though.”

“Yeah,” Ruben said, “and you don’t know them, either.”