Ezra’s eyes widen.
“Oh, and I need to tell you about hellhounds!”
“No you don’t,” Tolliver says, laughing nervously as he gently pushes me back down. He turns to Ezra. “They never come out this far from a city.”
“They’re shape-shifters,” I say.
“Dude, that’s not helping,” Tolliver mutters.
One thing I’ve learned about Ezra is that the more freaked out he is, the more likely he is to follow through. I got him on the ferry by telling him how many shipwreck sites we were going to pass. It’s a weird quirk, and I can’t decide if it’s healthy or if we should find him a therapist ASAP.
“Helping? No.” I pull my mask back up. “But manipulation is my love language.”
Maybe we all need therapy.
Tolliver shakes his head as he snaps the final tube into place. “Ready?”
“Freddy,” I say. It’s go time.
Tolliver counts down from three before turning the valve and releasing the mist. The process is always the same. The world fades, replaced by the realization of utter insignificance in a vast galaxy. I go toward the light, blah blah blah, and then…
Here I am.
Right where I was, in a seaside-themed Airbnb on Tangier Island. Everything is just as I remember it, though not exactly as it really is. I’m not familiar enough with the house for my subconscious to re-create it accurately—I’m sure I’m missing some shabby chic wall art with an ocean-related pun—but once Ezra is here, it’ll help. And enough people on the island must have been here to keep the psychic re-creationstable, which is really all that matters.
The journal is in my hands, Poppy’s watch on my wrist. If Ezra isn’t here by the first beep, I’ll do this job on my own. But if he chickens out, I’ll eat my metaphorical hat. Or bonnet, I guess.
To make Alice feel more comfortable, Ezra and I are dressed in 1910s garb. Alice died in the forties, but people usually feel most comfortable with the culture of their youth. I’m in a high-necked cotton blouse and long woolen skirt. A knit shawl and apron shows I’m a hardworking salt-of-the-earth type, and I’ve added sturdy lace-up boots and a floral bonnet for good measure.
Ezra arrives just as my alarm goes off.
One moment, he’s not there, and then the next, he is, ripping off his mask and immediately vomiting onto the sea-glass-colored rug.
I wrinkle my nose. “I’ve never seen anyone throw up in the Afterlife before.”
“Am I puking in real life?” Ezra gasps.
I pause, thinking. “Probably not. But don’t worry, Tolliver won’t let you choke to death.”
After a few more dry heaves, I help him to his feet.
“And thisisreal life,” I say. “Or real…death? Anyway, actions have consequences here. Remember that.”
Ezra stretches his arms out in front of him and gapes at his slightly transparent hands. “Weird.”
The seashell wallpaper turns to wood paneling and then back again.
“Focus,” I call over my shoulder as I head out the door. “We don’t want to wander into any black holes or get eaten by a pterodactyl-size swallow.”
“Can that happen?” Ezra asks, scurrying after me.
I don’t answer as I lead him to the nearest dirt path.
The Tangier Island of the Afterlife is bigger and busier than the one of the Beforedeath. A few Dead are out in their yards, hanging clothes or mending fishing nets. Houses stand close together, raised up on stilts or brick piers. The lanes are lined with sand, the scent of brine on the breeze.
“It’s so realistic,” Ezra marvels.
I head down the path toward Alice’s house.
