Page 31

The man, obviously equipped with some kind of ear filter, kept right on grinning and said to John, “You seem to be a good

man. You remind me of Obama, when he first came on the scene. I voted for him—the first time.”

Ruben looked skeptical—probably thanks to the guy’s Confederate tattoo—but Persephone wasn’t entirely surprised. She’d encountered

a couple of guys like him when she was growing up; a few of her friends had daddies who had Confederate flags posted on the

beds of their pickup trucks or stickers on the rear windows. Rebel flags , they’d emphasize. To them, it wasn’t about being racist, which they swore they weren’t, but honoring their Southern heritage.

When she was a kid, she didn’t have the words to explain how that particular element of heritage couldn’t be separated from

white supremacy and human trafficking and enslavement, but now that she did have the words, she didn’t have the energy to

get into a debate about it. Plus she was doubtful he’d even take seriously anything coming from her sugar lips .

“Anyway,” the man went on, “glad to hear you found your kin. A man needs family in this world, somethin’ to hold on to.” He

glanced outside. “Well, how about you folks let me get your meal? On me.”

John began to protest but Persephone silenced him with a look.

She had John’s credit card, but she didn’t feel right using his money to fund a trip that was essentially her own.

She wanted to use as little of his money as possible, and she needed all the cash she could keep in her pockets.

Gas was expensive; food added up; motels were gross, but even the lowliest ones didn’t come cheap enough.

Besides, after sitting through this conversation, she figured they’d all earned this one.

24

The next hotel wasn’t fancy, but Persephone didn’t feel compelled to tuck her shirt into the waistband of her sweatpants to

keep the bedbugs out while she slept, so that was something.

“I was thinking,” she said after they’d settled in, “that Ruben and I should do a few rounds of the Overlay now. Give you,

I don’t know, an energy cushion or whatever. I mean, we have all day.”

Ruben came to sit beside her on one of the double beds. “Why didn’t I think of that?” He looked a little miffed that she’d

come up with the idea before he had. “You want to go rounds? You and me, ten-minute Overlays each, twenty-minute rest intervals

between?”

He really didn’t think twice about any of this. They were only a few years apart, but he felt so much younger, so much less

experienced and—it did sting a little to think this, but it was what it was—untouched by the general suckiness of life. She

looked away, hating that someone near her own age could make her feel so old, so worried about running out of time. Persephone

nodded.

“Cool.” Ruben rose from the bed. “I’m gonna grab a quick shower.”

“Shower? Why not after?”

“We’ve been traveling all day.”

“It’s not like you’re actually touching him.”

“I’m sweaty.” Ruben shrugged. “It’d just be rude, OK? Maybe you should consider it...?”

Persephone rolled her eyes and looked to John, who shrugged.

Ruben walked to the bathroom and, just before closing the door, said over his shoulder, “He’s just being polite.”

“Time’s a-tickin’,” Persephone retorted. “If John’s gone by the time you get out, we’ll all know who to blame.”

Ruben responded with the sound of running water.

Persephone checked her phone. She hadn’t heard from Parker since texting him that she was on her way. He hadn’t texted back

and she didn’t want to text again, not wanting them to get in the habit of communicating.

No, she was lying to herself. She’d been too afraid to text.

When Ruben came out of the bathroom, rubbing a hand towel over his mohawked head, he was shirtless. And significantly less

bird-chested than she’d expected him to be.

“Okaaay,” he said. “Mr. Colón has stepped into the building.” Somewhere on this trip Ruben Colón had had a confidence growth

spurt.

“Yay,” Persephone deadpanned. But in spite of herself, she smiled.

25

They’d been going at it for hours.

It was weird: after the first four Overlays, two each for both Ruben and Persephone, the Overlays seemed to lose potency.

They had to sit longer only to have less energy pass from themselves to John. It was definitely working—with each Overlay,

he became more opaque—but there was definitely a sense of diminishing returns.

Having finished a thirty-minute session, Persephone went to the bathroom to wash her face. She could use a shower, actually.

After the second Overlay her lower back had started to ache, and during her fourth Overlay, she could’ve sworn her heart skipped

a beat.

She pulled her hair back into a ponytail and bent to splash water over her face. She froze, leaned closer to the mirror, tilted

her head so that her hair might catch the light differently.

She wasn’t seeing things: just above her ear was a thin, silvery strip of hair, extending probably two inches from her scalp

and no wider than half her pinky nail.

It definitely hadn’t been there before.

She ran a finger down the length of white. Her hair wasn’t blonde enough to make it blend completely. She checked around her

eyes and neck and hands; Mama had more melanin in one finger than Persephone had in her whole body, so premature wrinkles

were a reality. She examined her skin for any oddities. There were none. Yet.

The strip was frighteningly white.

If John fades away, you’ll be left with nothing. Because without John, you’re nothing.

But keeping up with the Overlays was risky. Every white hair, every wrinkle Persephone ended up getting overnight, was equal

to a fistful of potential roles she’d be tossing out. And there was the AMC show to think about. She couldn’t show up on set

with a handful of new lines on her face—she was supposed to be a grad student, and not the kind who’d “lived her life” before

coming to campus.

She didn’t know which option was right—morally right or just right for her, or if it was messed up to even weigh the two.

For several moments, no one spoke. Persephone, having just shown them her hair, sat on her bed, feeling terrible yet adamant;

Ruben sat on his bed, staring at his hands; John stood near the TV, watching them both.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Persephone said. John nodded, but Ruben didn’t say a thing. “Ruben, giving John this energy—life

force, mystery powers, whatever it is—it isn’t free. Like anything, it’s costing us. Even if we don’t know exactly what it

is, yet.”

“It’s nothing we can’t handle.”

“I think it is.”

“I’m not saying nothing is going to happen—I mean, we might be marked. That’s how it works. There’s a scar or maybe you get superpowers. Or, like,

you know, you get a stripe in your hair.”

“Ruben, this isn’t your Sandman comic book—”

“Graphic novel.”

“Whatever. This is real. And we could be shortening our lives for all we know.”

“Don’t you want him to stay?”

“Of course I do! But—”

“You’re just afraid—”

“No, Ruben,” John broke in. “She’s right. It isn’t about being fearful, it’s about being smart.”

“We’re so close, dude,” Ruben said. “I won’t let you disappear.”

Persephone couldn’t help hearing the unspoken thing: even if Persephone will .

26

Ruben’s fatigue, that horrific strip in Persephone’s hair... John had literally drained them. He wished he could stop,

well, taking from them (he hated to put it that way, but wasn’t that what it was?), but death hadn’t abolished his instinct to survive,

and so stopping would be akin to suffocating himself with his own hands. Impossible. Thankful and relieved and guilt ridden,

John glanced back at their sleeping bodies just before passing through the door.

It was past the middle of the night, but he took the stairs anyway, and though he hadn’t expected anyone to be out he was

still pleased to find the car park empty. There was little risk of anyone spotting him using his mobile.

She picked up after the third ring.

“Mabel. You’re up late.”

“This is unexpected,” she said softly. “Where are you?”

“We’re about six or seven hours from Corpus Christi.”

“ We ? Oh, you mean your friends for hire.”

It was a fair shot, considering he’d called them just that back at the beach house. If she thought he was horrible, he shouldn’t

care. But he did. “I suppose I deserved that. What are you doing now? Can you talk?”

“Is this a heart-to-heart, after all?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I distinctly remember you telling me you weren’t looking for that, either.”

He didn’t reply.

She sighed. “What’s the matter, John?”

Wherever she was, it sounded very still there, as still as it did here, in the middle of nowhere beneath a dark sky. He wondered

what they used to talk about when he was alive. He wondered if he’d ever suspected anything peculiar about her. “The Grey

Man showed up. Long story short, he... touched me, reached through me.” And he proceeded to explain to her how, ever since,

he’d experienced fading. “And worse, I think,” he added when he finished, “temporary memory loss. It doesn’t last long, but

why is this happening?”

“Well,” she said, “the Grey Man wants something.”

“My obliteration.”

“Maybe,” she replied, and there was a measure in her tone that he didn’t quite understand.

“What else then?”

“I don’t know.”

“And the fading?”

“Is probably predictable—mathematically speaking. You’ll see logic, math, everywhere in nature, in creation, if you look closely

enough. I think your fading is going to go by halves, quarters maybe, and since there isn’t much of you to begin with, I’m

thinking you’ve got just over a week or so.”

“I’m no closer to finding my way back into the House. And it’s not for lack of trying. Apparently portals aren’t easy to come

by.”

She didn’t reply.

“Back at the beach,” he said, “I told you I didn’t come here purposely.”

“And now you question this?”

“No, I was certainly ousted from my House.”

“It was our house, once.”