There was no sound, but it wasn’t exactly silent. At the edge of her perception, far-off and indistinct, she knew there were things that, if she concentrated on them, she would call sounds. But she didn’t concentrate on them; she was content to let them remain unrealized potentials.

There was no color except gray, and no texture to the grayness. It was neither hot nor cold, comfortable nor uncomfortable. No tables, no chairs, no walls, no horizon, no sky. Just gray, like a mist. She felt as if she were at the center of creation: A word, a gesture, a hint, would be enough to turn the grayness into solidity, make objects from ideas. But she didn’t care to experiment. She felt a sense of peace mixed with infinite patience. No curiosity, no desire to explore, no sense of time’s passage.

She might have hung in the grayness—bodiless, incurious—for either moments or centuries. She had no way to tell. But eventually she became aware of a light source in front of her, and she experienced a sense of motion toward it.

There was no way to mark her motion—no landmarks, no mileposts, no wind, no inertia—but she knew she was moving. As she floated toward the light, the grayness seemed to narrow, to focus itself. It was less gray ahead of her, darker to the sides and behind. The contrast became sharper, and her velocity increased. Now the grayness had become a gradually narrowing tunnel, infinitely wide and black at the edge, infinitely narrow and white in the center, and she was rushing toward the center.

“That’s a trick of your brain chemistry,” said a voice. “A fairly common experience, really, induced by the massive release of endorphins at the moment of death and a simultaneous inability of the brain to process incoming information.”

Sarah heard the voice, but couldn’t respond. She flew down the tunnel toward the brightness, drawn by forces she didn’t understand. She was close enough now to see that there was something beyond the end of the tunnel. Vague shapes, cloaked in painfully bright light, beckoned to her, urging her on.

“That’s an illusion,” resumed the voice dispassionately. “Freud would call it wish fulfillment. Other psychiatric systems have somewhat less complimentary names for it, but I prefer to believe the best.”

Sarah ignored the voice, and concentrated on the figures ahead of her. One of them turned fully toward her, and she recognized her father’s face. He was smiling, holding out his arms. Beside him stood Sarah’s mother, her eyes brimming with tears of love and welcome. “Daddy!” Sarah cried. “Mother! I’m coming, I’m coming!”

“Very touching,” commented the voice. “Predictable, but still touching. If you were religious, you would soon see a stronger light than the others. Christ, Brama, the Californian God of the Week—it doesn’t matter. Warmer than warmth, more loving than love, more comforting than comfort, and so forth.”

Sarah felt a twinge of exasperation as the voice continued to provide dry commentary on her experiences. This was all wrong. The voice was ruining it. She fixed her attention firmly on her parents. She was almost there! Her father’s smile broadened, his arms opened wider. A yearning, an inconsolable longing, built up in her heart.

“Look,” said the voice, “you’re just setting yourself up for disappointment. Are you sure you want to do this?”

Sarah shook her head. That damned voice. Bothering her. Interfering. “Stop it!” she said.

Sarah sat on the bench seat of a booth in a crowded, noisy restaurant. The waiter stood at the end of the table, order pad in hand, and looked at her impatiently. “Yes?”

“She’ll have tea,” said the dry voice. “I’ll have a beer. Heineken, green bottle.”

“Right,” said the waiter, and turned away.

Sarah blinked and looked across the table. The man sitting there smiled, lifted an eyebrow, and nodded a greeting. “I’m Michael,” he said, “and you are...?”

“Sarah,” she said automatically. The man’s voice was dry, urbane, and she recognized it instantly as the voice she had heard in the tunnel.

For a second, she was too stunned to react. Then disappointment and rage filled her. “How dare you? Send me back!”

“Back to the illusion? But you asked me to stop it for you, and I did.”

“You idiot, I meant stop interfering. Send me back! Send me back right now!”

Michael shrugged. “As you wish.”

“No!” Sarah’s cry was almost a scream. The light faded, and gray mist crept in from all directions until once again she found herself alone in a featureless, textureless, emotionless, timeless place. Her grief faded with the light, to be replaced with a vast numbness. It was like being wrapped in cotton in a dark room.

“Here, don’t do that,” said the voice. “Don’t retreat again.”

A hand emerged into her field of view. The hand was not visibly connected to an arm, but she had a sense that the arm was somewhere else, that the hand was poking into her private universe the way one might reach through the slit in a drape.

“Don’t do what?” she said.

“The trip, the hallucination, is over. Your brain is dead now. You can build your own little world of numbness and resentment, locking me out, or you can talk to me. In the long run, I think it’s better to skip the tunnel-of-light experience, but some people seem to require it. Of course, if they manage to resuscitate you now, you’ll forget most of this.”

“Who are you? Are you...God?”

“Don’t be silly. Take my hand and come out of there.”

Michael smiled. “What’s so confusing?”

“Well, first—where are we?”

Michael took a swig of beer and shrugged. “I have no idea.” He looked around. “The decor suggests approximately ten years ago, maybe fifteen. It’s your memory, not mine. Don’t you recognize it?”

“My...memory?”

“Look around, Sarah.”

She did. “Oh, my God. It’s Lenny’s Grill.”

“You remember it now?”

“Of course. We used to come here all the time when I was in high school. But I haven’t thought of this place in years! How did we get here? I was in some sort of gray place...then I saw your hand...we talked for a moment...and now....”

“We’re not really here. This is a memory. Like a movie set. Built up from your mind. It was a very clear memory, so I lifted it from your mind and put us into it. It’s better than floating in nowhere, isn’t it? You were disoriented, so I helped out a bit. Drink some more tea.”

Sarah put her cup down. Her hands grew numb. Her vision wavered. The edges of her sight fluttered gray. “The tunnel,” she said. “My parents—” The grayness rose around her. The restaurant winked out.

“Damn,” came Michael’s voice. “Stop that, Sarah. Stay with me.”

“I’m dead, aren’t I?”

“Yes.”

“The tunnel? My parents—the restaurant—even you—they’re all illusions? Memories?”

“Not quite. You’re here; I’m here. The rest is illusion.”

“Are you dead, too?”

“No.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’ll explain if we have time. But first, stop retreating into this damned gray velvet nothingness. You can get lost in here. Let’s go back to the restaurant.”

“What do you mean, ‘If we have time’? Don’t we have all eternity?”

“I don’t know the answer to that any better than you do.”

“Why can’t I see you?”

“Do you want to?”

“Yes.”

“No, you don’t. If you wanted to, you could.”

A body slowly took shape before her, emerging like a ghost from the gray mist. It grew solid, real. “There you are,” she said. Michael stood before her in a long white robe, his arms outstretched. His face radiated light.

“Oh, cut the crap,” said Michael. “I told you, I’m not God. I’m just a guy.” He dropped his arms. The unearthly radiance faded from his features. He wore washed-out jeans and a T-shirt. “This is me,” he said. “I’m five-eleven. My hair is brown. My eyes are blue. I have bedsores and a bad back.” A bottle of Heineken appeared in his left hand. He lifted it in a mock toast. “To us.” He smiled. “Now you make a body. Think of it like putting on a sock.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Michael. “Is that what you looked like?”

“Me? Oh, no. I was—am—was—ordinary.”

“I doubt that.”

“It’s true. I had moles and warts and aching joints, just like everyone else.”

“What color were your eyes?”

“Brown, like my hair.”

“Then why did you choose to be blond now?”

She blinked, lowered her head, and sat down on nothing. “My sister Mary was blond. I always thought she was beautiful.”

“Is that Mary’s body you have on?”

“Mostly. I was so jealous of her before. Back when—”

“I understand.”

“But it’s just hair, isn’t it?”

“Yup. Strands of dead protein.”

Suddenly Sarah was completely bald. A silver hand-mirror appeared in her left hand. She studied her reflection for a moment, then let her hand fall away. The mirror slipped from her fingers and vanished.

“Shouldn’t I be upset? Panicking? Worried? I don’t know what I should feel, but it doesn’t seem right to be this detached.”

“No glands.”

“What?”

“No glands. Your mind isn’t in your brain. The chemical bath can’t affect you anymore. Most of your emotions are biochemical—reactions in your brain caused by various glands in your body releasing chemical triggers. Adrenaline, endorphins, insulin, neurotransmitters, various hormones. They all affected you when you had a body. Now you’re free of them. You still have emotions, but they’re considered responses to your perceptions, not knee-jerk, chemically induced reflexes.”

“Oh.”

Sarah was quiet for a moment. Then: “Speaking of my body...?”

“You want to see it, huh?”

“Can I?”

“Why not? Hold still—since you don’t know your way around, I’ll have to steer. Relax just a bit, let the images come through.”

“No, we’re inside a nurse, watching. Those are her hands. Her name is Millie, but don’t talk to her. You’d frighten her.”

“What do you mean, ‘inside’? Inside her mind?”

“We’re borrowing her eyes and other senses. Think of it like a phone tap. We’re not really in the circuit, but we can monitor everything. See how you can hear all the voices, but only the doctor’s is clear? That’s because Millie is only listening to the doctor. Watch how her attention never strays from the patient, even though she—we—can feel sweat dripping into our eyes.”

“What’s she doing?”

“Holding the incision apart with a clamp, so the doctor can work.”

“What’s he doing?”

“Repairing a torn aorta. After that, he’ll try to get your heart started again.”

“My heart? That’s me under the sheets? But I’ve been dead for hours! At least it feels like hours. How long has it been?”

“Oh, only a few seconds. They don’t know you’re dead yet. And you might not be. If they resuscitate you, you’ll forget all of this. Or maybe you’ll remember a little bit and sell your story to the National Enquirer.”

“Michael? This is crazy, but I feel hungry.”

“No, Millie’s hungry. She’s working an extra shift because of the accident, and she hasn’t eaten lunch. It can be confusing sometimes. Here, let’s make a jump—”

Her sense of perspective shifted. She looked out of an orderly’s eyes, felt his thoughts. She—they—looked at the operating room from the other side. Their attention was fixed on a nurse beside the operating table.

“That’s Millie from outside,” said Michael. “The guy we’re inside—Burt—has the hots for her. Can you feel it? We’re staring at her breasts. Our penis is twitching. Our mouth is dry.”

“Ugh.”

“She is cute, though. Have you seen enough? Do you want to see the other people from the bus?”

“Uh, no thanks. Where’s your body?”

“Come on, I’ll show you.”

“Ordinary, maybe, but not ugly.” Sarah sat beside Michael. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I fell off a ladder about a year ago. Broke open my skull and snapped my neck. Paralyzed from the neck down. In a coma for the most part. Brain damage. The rest of the injuries have pretty much healed by now.”

“Will you recover?”

He shrugged. “Who knows? The doctors don’t. See the EEG? That tells them that I’m not brain-dead. So they keep me going. Every now and then, I spaz out—clonic convulsions, followed by cardiac irregularities and respiratory arrest. Each time, they revive me, repair the damage, keep me in ICU until I’m stabilized, then move me back here. It’s been a year now. I guess they’ll keep doing it until my EEG goes flat or my insurance runs out.”

“And all this time, you’ve been walking around the hospital like a ghost? And no one knows?”

“I talk to the dead people from time to time. I never get much of a chance to develop a relationship, though. They don’t stick around very long.”

Sarah looked down at her hands. “What happens to us?”

“People like you, you mean? Dead people?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know.”

“Michael!”

“I honestly don’t know. They go away. Somewhere I can’t follow. Sometimes I think they just disintegrate. After a certain length of time out of the body, they just...disappear. Like a mist evaporating in the sun. Other times, I think they go somewhere I don’t know about.”

“Heaven, you mean? Or Hell?”

“Maybe it’s Lûr’s Cauldron of Rebirth. Or Valhalla. The Happy Hunting Grounds. Hades. Or something else. It might be Heaven, for all I know. No one’s ever come back to tell me about it. They hang around for a couple of minutes after death—usually confused or hallucinating—and then they fade away.”

“I don’t want to fade away.”

“I don’t want you to, either. I like talking to you. I get lots of deaders—this is a hospital, after all—but very few NDEs.”

“NDE,” she said thoughtfully. “I’ve heard of that. It’s a near-death experience. Not really dead.”

“No, it’s really dead. Sometimes the doctors can revive you after you die. Heart, lungs, brain—kaput. Dead as dead can be. They only call it an NDE if you come back.”

“Back from death? Like Jesus?”

“He hasn’t come through the ER, so I don’t know.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Sorry. Yes, I know what you mean. I’m not talking about resurrection. An NDE only lasts a few seconds, maybe a minute of real time. Subjectively, it can be much longer. Depends on the person. Of course, it’s even sadder when the person fades and then they revive the body. It’s too late then. Just empty skin. But you haven’t faded yet. Your mind is very strong; I noticed that immediately. If they can get your body repaired, you’ll probably last long enough to climb back inside it. With most people, I barely have time to say hello and goodbye.”

“How can I tell if I’m really dead or just having an NDE?”

“You’re really dead either way. Otherwise we couldn’t be talking like this.”

Sarah took his hand. “I want to stay with you.”

“With me? Oh, no. If they revive you, you’ll have your life back again. If they don’t, you’ll fade away, do whatever it is that ghosts are supposed to do. Me, I’m trapped. ‘Neither fish nor fowl nor good red herring.’ Not dead, not alive. I can’t go very far from my body, or I’ll get lost, never find my way back.”

“But you’ve had a year to practice—”

Michael laughed. “A year? No, that’s just how long I’ve been trapped here. I’ve always been able to get out of my head.”

“These are the dunes on the east side of Lake Michigan. We used to come here when I was a kid. I don’t think the water could really have been quite that deep shade of blue, but that’s how I remember it.”

“It’s lovely. Can a ghost get a suntan in a dream?”

“If you want.”

“I do! How long has it been?”

“We’ve been here about a half-hour.”

“That isn’t what I meant.”

“Oh. Maybe a minute since you died, I guess. You don’t have to filter everything through your brain anymore, so you can assimilate experiences faster.”

“So I have another what? Two or three minutes of real time, eight to twelve hours of subjective time? Then I fade away?”

“Sarah, there’s no rulebook. It’s different for everyone.” He took her hands in his, pulled her close. “I hope you stay forever.”

She let him take her hands, but kept herself stiff. “You scare me,” she whispered.

Michael was genuinely puzzled. “Why?”

“Because I can’t help caring for you, and I don’t know why. When you said, ‘Stay forever,’ all I could think was that I’d love to. And I hardly know you. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Ah. Yes, it does. You’ve heard the expression ‘kindred spirits’? Or ‘soulmates’? Living people use those terms, even though they don’t understand what they really mean. Maybe the living get a little glimmer from time to time. But the body interferes. Those damned glands again. Love gets all mixed up with physical sex. They’re connected because they’re both about intimacy, loneliness, vulnerability. But they’re separate functions. True love is a meeting of the minds. Sex can be an expression of love, but not a substitute for it. Here, you have no distractions. No glands to make you crazy, nothing to interfere with your direct perception of the other person. It really can be ‘kindred spirits’ for us. We are spirits.”

She grinned. “So you believe in love at first death?”

“Ever since I met you, yes.”

Now there was no resistance. Her eyes sparkled. “Can ghosts make love?”

“Want to find out?”

“Yes, oh, yes!”

“What if I’m hallucinating?”

“What do you mean?”

“What if this—all of it—you, me, everything—is just a dream I’m having while the doctors work on me?”

“In college philosophy, the prof asked us to imagine that the world had been created ten minutes ago, with everything in place, including our memories. The challenge was to see if we could tell the difference.”

“Could you?”

“Nope. Nor could anyone. It’s impossible.”

“That’s...depressing.”

“Not really. The thing is, you can’t know. You just have to go by the least hypothesis. Otherwise you get centipede trouble. You know the story. Someone asked the centipede how he coordinated all his legs. The centipede thought about it, tripped, fell down in a tangle, and never walked again. I figured out a long time ago that analysis doesn’t help. You just do the best you can, and try not to think about it. For all I know, I’m hallucinating this whole conversation. If so, what can I do about it? ‘Sanity’ is a useful legal concept, but it doesn’t mean much in the real world.”

“I don’t feel insane.”

He grinned. “You wouldn’t, would you? Your mind, your logic engine, is what you use to evaluate everything, including your own mind. You’d never know if you were malfunctioning.” His face changed suddenly. “Oh, damn.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Remember those seizures I told you about? My body’s having another one right now.” He winced. “Grand mal. They’re having trouble holding me down.”

Sarah felt a rising sense of panic. “Are you okay? What can I do? How can I help? Do we need to go back? What—?”

“We haven’t really gone anywhere. This is just a memory. I used to watch when they worked on me, but recently—” He shrugged. “I’d rather not know. If I die, I’ll just fade away. If I don’t, nothing will change.” He stood up, held out a hand to her. “Come on, let’s go for a walk along the shore. It’ll distract me.”

Waves lapped their ankles, tickled their toes. Children ran past them, through them, unaware. They walked down the crowded beach hand-in-hand, leaving no footprints behind in the wet sand.

Sarah flinched when a Frisbee flew through her head, then laughed. She watched the children playing and smiled to herself. “Remember being a kid, Michael?”

“All too well, sometimes.”

She ignored his tone of voice. “They’re so carefree, so happy, with all of life ahead of them. I’d love to be a little girl again. Maybe make fewer mistakes this time.”

“You just think so. You wouldn’t really like it. Everyone has those fantasies from time to time. ‘What would it be like to go back, to do it all over again?’ The problem is, you can’t. If you did it over, you’d do it the same way.”

“It’s just a fantasy. Why not indulge it?”

“Fine. Okay, I’ll show you.”

(“Michael? What—?”)

(“Shhh. Just watch. This is a memory, one of yours.”)

(“But that’s me! I’m ten years old again!”)

(“Yes, this is a complete memory. Not just the scenery. Pretend you’re watching a videotape.”)

Sarah picked up her mother’s eyeliner and inexpertly drew a thick black smudge under each eye. Next came the shadow. Closing one eye and peering through the other, she painted blotchy blue over the closed lid. The brush strayed as far up as her eyebrows, but she decided that if a little bit was good, a lot would be better. She did the other eye the same way.

Rouge for her cheeks. Smearing it in a circle, the way she’d seen her mother do it. The edges didn’t feather properly, so she put more on and tried again. Two cherry spots decorated her cheeks, rose and fell when she smiled.

Lipstick now. Her lips were thin and childish. A bright color would be best, make her look most grown-up. She hesitated over the purple, then chose crimson, and applied it carefully. Her lips were still too thin. Maybe if she edged the stick around her lips a bit—? Yes, that did it. Maybe just a bit more, now. The lipstick was wonderful. You couldn’t really tell where her lips merged in with the rest of her face, so she could make her lips any size she wanted.

She used a Kleenex to wipe the lipstick from her teeth, then studied her face. Powder! She’d forgotten the powder. A tiny dust cloud filled the bathroom. There! She smiled at herself in the mirror.

(“Michael, I look horrible. Like a clown!”)

(“You were ten. What did you know?”)

(“I should have known.”)

(“You weren’t thinking that way back then. Look at yourself. Can’t you imagine what you’re feeling?”)

(“Proud. Grown-up. Sophisticated. Worldly. I don’t have to imagine it. I remember.”)

(“Shhh. Watch now.”)

Sarah turned at the knock on the door. She lifted one hand in a graceful gesture. “Come in.”

Mary, Sarah’s older sister, came into the room and stopped dead. “Sarah Jane Weller, what in the world—?”

Sarah lifted her chin, pushed her lips out in what she thought was a sensuous pout. Her voice lilted. “Aren’t I lovely, Mary?”

Mary smothered a giggle and turned away. “Mom! Come here. You’ve got to see this. Sarah’s going to be a streetwalker!”

Sarah’s mother appeared in the bathroom doorway a moment later. She took one look at Sarah, then exchanged a smile with Mary.

“Don’t I look great?” Sarah said archly.

“You look like a hooker,” said Mary.

“That’s enough.” Sarah’s mother was obviously trying to be stern with Mary, but couldn’t help laughing. “You look very nice, Sarah, but let’s get you cleaned up now.”

(“Oh, Michael. I’m so embarrassed.”)

(“Why?”)

(“I didn’t know what ‘hooker’ or ‘streetwalker’ meant. I thought, back then, that they were proud of me. That they were laughing with me. They weren’t, were they?”)

(“No.”)

(“I’ve seen enough for now.”)

(“Have I proved my point?”)

(“That you can embarrass me?”)

(“No, that your memory is a liar.”)

(“I knew that already.”)

(“Did you?”)

“No, not back then. Only now, looking back, can you judge the situation. And you’re still not objective.”

“But you can get out of your head? Look at things from other perspectives?”

“That’s right.”

“How? I mean, can anyone else—?”

“Not that I know of. Except right after they die, of course. I don’t know anyone else who can do it while alive.”

“How did you learn?”

“It was more like remembering. I think I always knew.”

“What do you mean?”

“I went for years at a time without remembering what I could do. The mind is funny, Sarah, and has all sorts of ways to protect itself. Sometimes, when it hurts too much, it’s like the brain just shuts down. I’ve seen it happen to others—not for the same reason, of course—but it works the same way. Violence, grief, rape, abuse: The doctors call it ‘trauma.’ And when there’s too much trauma, you either go mad or something like a circuit breaker trips, and that part of you, the ability, the memories, the pain, all of it, just goes away until you’re strong enough to remember it.”

“Pain?”

“Yes, it used to hurt a lot. It still does, sometimes, but I don’t take many chances anymore. Once burned, or something like that. I’m not a complicated person, and I’m not very brave. I remember one time, when I was very young, maybe five or six years old. I was sitting on a wooden bench in the park. It must have been spring, or very early summer. It had been raining, but the sun came out, and I was just sitting there, dangling my feet, drinking it all in. A bunch of kids were playing on the swings, laughing and giggling. The sun was strong but not glaring, and the air was very sweet, full of the smells of wet cut grass and flowers.”

“It sounds lovely.”

“It was like Heaven. I’m remembering it very clearly now.”

“Can you show me? Like you did with my memory?”

“I’d rather just talk about this one. Have you ever had a feeling that everything was right with the world? You know, everything in the right place, everything going just the way it’s supposed to go?”

“I used to feel that way when I was a little girl, and Daddy held my hand. We used to go for a walk together every Sunday afternoon, after church. He was very strong, and handsome, and smart, and he loved me very much. I don’t know that I’ve ever been happier than when I was eight years old, holding my father’s hand.”

“Yes, yes, that’s it. That’s the way I felt that morning. Everything was peaceful, and I relaxed enough to start remembering. Even when I was that young, I had bottled things up inside me. But slowly, slowly, the warmth of the sunlight unclenched the secret part of me, and I started to remember. I think the first time must have been when I was still an infant—or maybe before I was born. It was all a jumble in my brain, a confusion of pictures and memories that didn’t make a lot of sense.”

“The first time was when you were a baby?”

“I don’t know. It was too much for me back then. Overwhelming. I kept blacking the ability out. My first several years were like a long, continuous nightmare. I’d remember, then forget, only to remember later on.”

“Why did you keep forgetting?”

“I’m trying to explain. That’s why I picked this particular memory. I sat there on the bench, and it was like remembering suddenly that I had wings and could fly if I wanted to. I saw another little boy, and I looked at him, and suddenly I was inside him, inside his head, looking out through his eyes, hearing with his ears. It was easy! I couldn’t believe that I’d forgotten how to do it. He had a piece of candy, one of those all-day lollipops, and he put it in his mouth, but I was the one who tasted it. I tasted it! Me! It was glorious. I could be inside anyone I wanted to be, anyone I saw. I jumped like a butterfly from kid to kid, never staying very long, just peeking through his or her eyes, laughing, and running away, all without moving from my seat on the bench. It was a little like being drunk—all light-headed, colors swirling, everything close-up, immediate—with none of the clarity lost. It was glorious.”

“What happened?”

“I went into the mind of an adult.”

“Was that so terrible?”

“Kids turn into adults very gradually, so they don’t really notice the difference. And by the time they’re all grown up, they can’t remember, really, what it was like to be a child—how they think, how they feel.”

“I remember how I felt when I held Daddy’s hand.”

“No, that’s different. You remember a specific thing, a specific event, and the part of you that remembers is an adult, and you filter what you remember with your adult’s brain. You remember being happy, right? A child doesn’t know he’s happy when he’s happy—he just is. There’s no overmind, no looking down at yourself every second, analyzing what you’re feeling, what you’re thinking. You just think and feel, and what’s good and what’s bad both last forever while they’re happening. Whatever’s happening right then is the most important thing in the world, because from your point of view, it’s the only thing happening, and it’s all happening to you, for you, around you. You don’t have room to look at things from a distance, because all there is of you is utterly wrapped up in just being you, and there is no distance.”

Sarah remembered herself experimenting with makeup. “I think I see what you mean.”

“People talk about going back to their childhoods, Sarah, but that’s only because they’ve forgotten what it was like.”

“Not all childhoods are terrible.”

“Did I say they were? That’s not the point. You’ve heard the saying ‘Youth is wasted on the young’? It’s clever, but it’s a lie. They have all that energy, all that vitality, that twinkle in their eyes, that grin on their lips—not because they’re happy all the time, but because they don’t know what’s coming. Innocence and ignorance go hand-in-hand. Can you imagine going back, knowing what you do now, and being locked into a child’s brain again, with only a child’s ability to evaluate what you see around you? No abstract thought, no understanding of philosophy, theology, science, mechanics, art?”

“Innocence can be beautiful.”

“Only from the outside. That’s an adult’s point of view, projecting, idealizing. The point is, kids don’t know from Adam. They don’t act, they react. They don’t really love, either—they’re just loyal to whoever feeds them.”

“Michael, were you ever really a child yourself?”

“Not since that day in the park, no.”

“I loved my parents, and nothing you say can change that.”

“The argument from personal incredulity. Okay, it’s not my job to make you a cynic. But hope and love and hunger and fear and all the other emotions are so jumbled together in a child’s mind that it’s pointless to try to separate them. We can look at two kids playing together and think, ‘They really like each other,’ but all we really know is that they’re having fun at that particular moment. That’s all they know, too, which is all I’m trying to say. This hogwash about wanting to go back, to be a child again, is just talking about removing layers of complexity—and it’s those layers of complexity that give things meaning. Otherwise, all you have is a welter of experiences. Children have no defenses, no guard functions; they can only protect themselves against what they know, against what they’re able to experience. They don’t need to defend themselves from unrequited love, for instance—it can’t happen to them.”

“Did you experience something you couldn’t defend against? That day in the park, I mean?”

“I think I’ve said too much already.”

“For your sake or mine? I don’t mind listening. It’s not like I’m in a hurry to rush off somewhere.”

“I do,” she said.

“The man had just killed his wife.”

“Oh!”

“Do you still want to know about it?”

“I think it’s important that you be able to tell me.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“No, dear, it’s not.”

“He killed her because he found out she had been sleeping with another man. Looking back at it now, I guess it was a rather commonplace motive for a rather commonplace crime, but to me, at age five or so, it was wildly beyond my experience. He was walking through the park, just like anyone else, but he was a murderer, and he knew it, and it was all he could think about. He was going over and over it in his mind, replaying it like a movie—the knife, the blood, the screaming. The horrible, horrible screaming. After the first time he stabbed her, he realized what he was doing and was horror-stricken. But she wouldn’t stop screaming, and he was afraid someone would hear, so just to get her to shut up, he stabbed her again. She just kept screaming, and he kept stabbing, until finally she was quiet.”

“That’s terrible.”

“He didn’t know what to do, so he just left her there, and went to get his gun. I saw all this in his mind, all at once, the first time I touched him. I had never experienced anything so strong, so primal. I couldn’t break away. With my eyes, I saw him walking toward me through the park, but with my mind, I saw what he saw: the knife and the blood. He sat down on the bench next to me, and I wanted to scream and run away, but all I could think was that he killed people who screamed, so I just sat there and messed my pants.”

“Why didn’t you run, tell someone?”

“I was too scared, too violated, to think straight. And I was still caught in his mind. He had blood all over his shirt—her blood—and I could remember, not from my own memories, but from his, how it had gotten there. How surprised he had been that blood was so hot. That there could be so much of it. He looked at me and smiled this really weird smile. ‘Have you ever seen a gun?’ he asked me, and when I shook my head, he pulled his gun out of his pocket, put it in his mouth and pulled the trigger.”

“Oh, God, Michael!”

“Seeing it wasn’t so bad. The hair on the back of his head lifted, kind of fluffed, like a sheet on a clothesline when the wind gusts. His brains splattered on the leaves of the bush behind us. It wasn’t what I saw with my eyes that hurt so much, but what I felt. See, I was still linked with him, and I felt him die. Other people heard the shot and were starting to look in our direction. Then he said, ‘You’d better get away from here.’”

“Wait, who said that?”

“He did. The guy who killed himself.”

“But—?”

“Yes, he was dead. I think that was the first time I ever talked to someone after he was dead. Dying is horrible, but death isn’t so bad. He got up from his body and walked away, very peacefully. I watched for a few seconds, but then he just sort of faded from sight, and I was back in my own brain again, with a dead man on the bench next to me, his brains in the bush behind me, and a huge load of crap in my pants.”

“What did you do?”

“I took his advice, got up, and ran away before any of the adults got there. And I turned off that part of my brain for a long time. It’s odd, isn’t it, that I would choose to forget my ability rather than the deaths? But that’s the way it happened. The next time I remembered, I was fourteen, and by then, of course, things were a lot different.”

“What happened when you were fourteen?”

“No. It’s your turn. Tell me about the bus.”

“Why are we back here?” came Michael’s voice.

“You made me remember the accident. It seems like forever since I thought about it. How long, Michael?”

“Two, maybe three minutes.”

“Are they still...working on me? Can we go back to the hospital to check?”

“We never left the hospital, Sarah. The beach—everything—was all illusion and memory. You’re still in the operating room.”

The grayness turned black. “Why can’t I see anything?”

“Sarah!” His bodiless voice was sharp, insistent. “Stay with me. You’re fading.”

His voice seemed to be coming from miles away. Sarah felt a sense of peace overwhelm her. It was so quiet, so serene, here in the darkness. Nothing mattered. Whatever happened would be fine, would be what was supposed to happen.

“Sarah! Sarah! Stay with me.” Michael’s voice pestered her, intruded on the peacefulness. His hand materialized. She watched, incurious, as he groped frantically for her. “I can’t do it alone, Sarah,” he said. “You have to reach for me. Reach out. Take my hand. Sarah! Come out of there. Come back. Stay with me!”

She considered the situation calmly. He sounded so upset, so worried. But it was so peaceful here, so tranquil. Why couldn’t he let her go? Why couldn’t he let her sleep? All she wanted to do was drift off.

“You can’t sleep, Sarah. Not yet. Come back first. Take my hand. Let me bring you back.”

Such a bother. Why did it matter? It would be so easy to ignore him, to float out of his reach, to go far enough away that even his voice would be gone.

“Sarah, no! Come back. I need you! I love you.”

Slowly, Sarah formed a hand, let his fingers touch her own. His touch was ice water on a hot summer day. It woke her from her dreams of darkness, shocked her into awareness. His fingers scrabbled for purchase, clamped like a vise around her hand, then yanked. Suddenly she was with him again. Emotions flooded back; the incurious peacefulness became a memory.

“Thank God,” he breathed. “I almost lost you.”

She held his hand tightly. “What happened?” she asked.

“You were fading.”

“You brought me back,” she said wonderingly. “I was almost gone. It was so strange, Michael. So peaceful. So quiet. I can still feel it....” The grayness darkened, smoothed out, became formless black.

He shook her arm violently. “Stop. Stay with me.”

The world came back in focus. Her eyes widened. “Don’t let go of me, Michael. Don’t let me fade away.”

“I won’t. I promise. I want— Uh-oh.”

“What? What is it?”

“Look, I can’t leave you alone right now—”

“Don’t! Don’t ever leave me!”

“—So you’ll have to come with me. It’s just down the hall. Hold my hand. That’s right. I won’t let go of you.”

“I’m scared, Michael.”

“Don’t be. I won’t let you get lost. Through this door—can you see it now?—and into this room. Here.”

Michael moved to a gurney alongside one wall, looked at the tiny body lying on it. “Hello, sweetheart,” he said. “I’m Michael, and this is Sarah. What’s your name?”

A little girl, maybe five years old, looked up at them. “My knee hurts,” she said.

“I bet it does,” said Michael. “Let me take a look.”

“Are you a doctor?”

“Sort of, honey. Can you sit up?”

Sarah gasped. “Michael! Her leg!” Then she bit her lip and kept quiet. Michael helped the little girl sit up and move to the edge of the gurney, leaving her body with the horrid tourniquet behind.

“It doesn’t hurt now,” said the girl.

“That’s good, sweetheart.”

An orderly walked through them, pushed the gurney away. The little girl leaped off and landed in Michael’s arms, leaving her body on the gurney. She wriggled and smiled. “You’re a nice man.” She kissed his cheek.

“What’s your name, sweetie?”

The little girl frowned. Her eyes grew wide. “I don’t remember.”

“That’s okay. It doesn’t matter. Does anything hurt anymore?”

She snuggled into his shoulder and murmured, “Mmmmn fine now.” Her eyelids fluttered. In a moment, she was asleep. A moment after that, Michael’s arms were empty.

Sarah fought back a sob. “She was so young, so pretty. Doesn’t it bother you, Michael?”

“It used to, but if I let myself grieve over every ghost I met, there wouldn’t be enough room in the world’s oceans to hold the tears. I give them what help I can, comfort them until they fade. It’s all I know how to do.”

“Is she gone now? Really gone?”

Michael nodded.

“And is—that—what will happen to me? What almost happened? I’ll just disappear? Be gone forever?”

Michael nodded again.

“Will you hold me, too, when it’s my turn?”

“Yes, if that’s what you want.”

“Poor Michael!”

“Eh?”

“Who will hold you when it’s your turn?”

Michael laughed. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“That’s because you’re a man.”

“Oh? I thought it was because I don’t like chocolate.”

“You’re impossible!”

“What’s one more impossible thing before breakfast? Or lunch. Or whatever the hell this meal is. Who’s counting?”

She took a long hard pull at the milkshake, savoring the cold, creamy, chocolate taste. “Lord, this is good.”

“Tell me about the bus, Sarah.”

She wiped her mouth with a napkin, sat back in the chair. “Was that little girl from the bus?”

Michael shrugged. “Probably. There were about fifteen people in there, and most of them had memories of an accident.” He paused. “So do you, but from a different angle. I haven’t looked deeply. Do you want me to—?”

“No,” she said quickly. “I wasn’t on the bus. I was what the bus hit.”

“Ah.”

“I was listening to the radio, on my way home from work. There was this really good song on, by the Eagles—”

“‘Hotel California’?”

“No, ‘Desperado.’ The live version.”

“I love that song.”

“Me, too. But my radio doesn’t work very well. A loose wire or something. You have to bang it from time to time. Anyway, that’s what I was doing. Banging the radio with my hand, trying to get the song to come in better. When I looked up, I realized I’d almost missed my exit.”

“So you swerved?”

“I swerved. I would have made it, too, except for the kid on the motorcycle. I saw him at the last minute, and hit the brakes—hard!—to keep from sideswiping him. The car skidded around almost in a circle. I guess the bus was in the lane behind the motorcycle, but I didn’t see it until just before it smashed into me.”

“Then what?”

“Then nothing. Until the hospital...and you.”

Michael nodded thoughtfully. “How do you feel about the accident?”

“What do you mean?”

“I was wondering if perhaps you felt guilty, or that you had to make up for it somehow.”

“No, it was an accident. I’m sorry for all those people, but I died, too, you know. Why?”

“Well, I don’t know how to put this.”

“Just say it, dear. ‘No glands,’ remember? You can’t hurt my feelings.”

“Okay. No one’s ever hung around this long before. It’s been three or four minutes, real time, since you died. I don’t understand why you’re still here. You should have faded.”

“Oh.” Sarah chewed on her lower lip. “Maybe it’s something you’re doing. Can you do that? Keep someone around?”

Michael’s face grew troubled. “No. No, I can’t. You can survive only so long away from a physical brain. When that’s gone, you fade. It will happen to me, too, when my brain dies.”

“There’s no way around it? I mean, does it have to be your brain? Wouldn’t any—?” She broke off, bewildered by his reaction. “Michael, Michael,” she said softly. “You’re crying, dear. What’s wrong?”

He swallowed, met her eyes briefly, then looked away. “There is a way,” he whispered. “That body you saw in the hospital, the one in the coma. It’s mine all right, but not the one I was born in. I stole it.”

Michael opened the wicker picnic basket, pulled out a bottle of red wine and two glasses. “Hold this,” he said, thrusting the bottle at Sarah. He rooted in the basket some more and came up with some cheese, a knife, and a corkscrew.

She looked around. “Where are we now?”

“This is Snowdon, the tallest peak in Britain, which isn’t saying much. That’s the Irish Sea out there. We’re in Gwynedd, northern Wales.”

She looked at the bottle. “With California wine?”

“Sue me. I couldn’t remember any English wines. But I remembered some great local cheese. Here, have a slice. And let me open that.” He pulled the cork from the bottle, filled their glasses.

Sarah nibbled the cheese. “Tell me about the stolen body,” she said.

“It was when I was seventeen. I killed a kid.”

“Oh, you poor thing. What happened?”

“You don’t think I’m evil?”

“Of course not. I don’t believe in evil. People make mistakes, sure—and sometimes people are incredibly selfish and insensitive—but no one’s really evil.”

“You lived a very sheltered life, Sarah.”

“So? You want to convince me that you’re evil? Tell me about the kid. Maybe I’ll change my mind.”

He shrugged. “Okay. After the experience when I was five or six, in the park—”

“I remember!”

“So do I. It scared me. Badly. So badly that I turned that part of my brain off. I ‘forgot’ again. Traumatic amnesia. Whatever. I didn’t remember until I was fourteen.”

“What triggered the memory?”

“I was at a concert with some friends from school. There was a blind kid sitting in front of us, one row ahead. I wondered what it would be like to be blind. I wondered what it would be like to be him. The next thing I knew, I was him. Everything went dark. I couldn’t see at all. My body felt wrong, somehow. Too big in some parts, too small in others. I knew what had happened, but I didn’t really understand it. I heard noises behind me, a thumping sound, and a bunch of boys’ voices.”

Michael paused, took a sip of wine. “It was weird. I panicked. I swam up out of the blind kid, and suddenly it was worse than ever. I didn’t know where I was. There were sights and sounds, but nothing made sense. It was like I was disconnected from everything. Then I looked down, and recognized my own body on the floor of the auditorium. Blood streamed from my forehead. I was unconscious. My friends were yelling at me.”

“What did you do?”

“I tried to pick me up. But my hands passed through me. No one could hear me. I figured out that I must have fallen forward when I left my body. That was the thumping sound I heard. And that’s why my forehead was bleeding.”

“You must have been frightened.”

“God, yes! Panicked. The only thing I could think was that I needed to get back inside my body. I was drifting away. Up toward the ceiling of the auditorium. I had no control. I reached out again, lunged really, and got ahold of myself. I sat up inside my body, everything back in place, but nothing the same.”

He paused, a faraway look on his face. “Oh, that’s nice.”

“What?”

“The phenobarbital. It worked finally. My seizure’s over.”

Sarah recoiled. “I forgot! All this time, we’ve been talking, and you’ve been—?”

He shook his head, smiled. “It’s only been a couple of minutes, real-time. And I’m not in my body. I don’t feel anything unless I want to. I only leave enough of myself behind to keep my body running while I’m away. And to lead me back. I wouldn’t want to get lost.” He stopped again, cocked his head to one side as if listening to something only he could hear. “Taking inventory,” he explained a moment later. Then he sighed and smiled again. “No permanent damage, apparently.”

“I’m glad.”

“Me, too. I’m always sure that when I die, it will be while I’m freewheeling. And instead of fading, I’ll just wander forever in the grayness.”

“‘Freewheeling’?”

“That’s my name for it. Using other people’s eyes and ears. Talking mind-to-mind. Seeing memories, tasting other people’s lives. And, um, other senses, too. I was a teenager when I figured this out, remember. There were certain curiosities, and I had a way to explore that not everyone had available.”

“You mean you were a Peeping Tom?” Sarah laughed. “I don’t believe it.”

“There was this girl. Jenny. She had honey-brown hair and gorgeous blue eyes. I had a crush on her. But she didn’t know I was alive. So I followed her around with my mind. Her best friend taught her how about sex one night. I was there, inside her, watching, feeling everything. That’s how I found out that female orgasm is different. God, so much more intense! She and her girlfriend slowly undressed each other, then rubbed—”

“I get the idea, Michael!”

“Embarrassed?”

“Only for you, you filthy peeper.”

“Tell the truth, Sarah. If you could go anywhere, inside anyone, and see whatever you wanted, without fear of discovery, wouldn’t you do it? At least once?”

“Uh, does the Fifth Amendment apply to ghosts?”

“Nope.”

“Then yes, damn you, I probably would. But I wouldn’t talk about it.”

“Oh, I never did, not back then. Who would I tell? But it wasn’t all just voyeurism. I was learning how to read memories while freewheeling. Nobody had any secrets from me, Sarah. Can you imagine the kind of power that gave me? I knew whose father was a drunk, whose mother had run off with the mailman, which teacher had the hots for which cheerleader, who was gay, who was straight, who cheated at the math tests, and who cribbed for the English essays. I didn’t have to touch a beer to know what it felt like to be drunk. I never bought dope, but I got high whenever I wanted. And the sex—! Every imaginable variation. You simply wouldn’t believe what goes on behind those quiet, respectable, suburban doors. I grew up very quickly.”

“I wasn’t that sheltered. I believe it.”

“Perhaps you do.” Michael refilled their wineglasses. “It took me a while to settle down, develop some ethics. By the time I was seventeen, I settled on a cross between ‘An it harm none’ and ‘Do unto others.’ I pretty much had myself convinced that freewheeling was morally wrong, unless there was a good reason for me to go into someone else’s mind. I still did it from time to time, but I felt guilty.”

“I don’t understand that. You couldn’t help being the way you were.”

“Mmmmn. There was this kid I knew, a friend’s little brother. When he was thirteen or so, he discovered masturbation. He was convinced it was evil. That’s what they told him at church, and he believed it. But he couldn’t help himself. At night, he’d think about some girl he’d seen, and his hands would move by themselves. Before he knew it, he’d have his pajamas open, his prick in his hand. He’d imagine her lips smothering his little wet cock, or her hands cupping his balls, and whammo, he’d hit the ceiling. He popped his baloney almost every night. Sometimes two or three times. And he always felt terrible afterward. The more he did it, the worse he felt. Guilty as hell. He took something normal and natural, something that should have been enjoyable, and turned it into a complex form of self-torture.”

“How sad! How”—she groped for words—“unnecessary.”

“That’s sex in America’s heartland. Cramped, repressed, shameful, hidden under the covers, and—because of all that—compulsive and addictive. I’m surprised anyone from the Bible Belt manages to get married and have kids. But my point is that even though it was natural, he felt guilty.”

“You’re a closet liberal.”

“Who said anything about a closet? Sorry, was I preaching?”

“Just a bit. But I understand now. Freewheeling was natural for you, but you felt guilty anyway. The pattern makes sense as long as you don’t go outside of it. But what morals were you really violating?”

“It was a privacy issue. Imagine if the whole world were blind, and only you could see.”

“‘In the country of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.’ That’s been done, Michael.”

“Yeah, but let’s do it again. Forget being king or queen. It doesn’t work that way. Think of the poor shmuck whose balls are hanging out of his shorts, but doesn’t know it. Or the lady, dressed in her finest clothes, with chives on her teeth or a wad of snot hanging from her nose. You can see it, no one else can.”

Sarah nodded. “Then the question would be, ‘Do you say anything?’”

“Not quite. Or yes, at first. But the answer to that one is obvious. People don’t want to hear the truth about themselves, and they most certainly don’t want to know that someone else knows. Dirty little secrets are supposed to stay secret. The real question isn’t whether or not you should say something, but how do you keep from blurting things out unintentionally?” He paused. “The only way is not to look.”

“So the one-eyed man plucks out his remaining eyeball?”

“No. But he wears dark glasses most of the time, and feels guilty when he peeks.”

Sarah shook her head. “I guess I understand how you felt about that. I’d feel guilty, too. But if you had developed your own sense of ethics, how did you end up killing someone? Was it an accident?”

“Humph. I was hoping you’d forget about that.”

“Not a chance, dear. You want to tell me, so go ahead.”

Michael shrugged. “There was an accident, yes. It happened to me. A friend and I were out on the lake when a storm came up. We lost control of the sailboat, and it went over. I drowned.”

“Michael!”

“My name was ‘Brad’ then. Brad Varley. Mike Hansen was my friend. He didn’t drown.”

“I don’t like the sound of this.”

“Does that mean you don’t want to hear the rest?”

“No.”

“Okay, then. I felt my body dying. I freewheeled. The only person around was Mike. Unfortunately for him, he was wearing a life vest.”

“‘Unfortunately’?”

“For him. I shoved myself into his head, elbowed him aside, and took over. I’d never done that. Take over, I mean. Always before, I was just a passenger in someone else’s cab. Now I was driving. And there was only room for one at the wheel. I pushed him out. I don’t think it would have worked if we hadn’t spent so much time together. He was a good friend.”

“Where did he go?”

“I don’t know. I pushed him out. Into the dark. He vanished. Died. From that point on, I’ve been in his body, calling myself ‘Michael,’ pretending to be him. After he was gone, what choice did I have? I knew most of his memories, anyway, and I could peek into his family’s minds, so it wasn’t hard to carry off the impersonation.”

He paused. “So tell me, Sarah. Am I evil?”

“You were desperate. You panicked.”

“Yes, but that’s no excuse. Am I evil?”

Sarah put down her wineglass, stood up, pulled him to his feet, put her arms around him. “I don’t believe in evil,” she said softly. “You made a mistake. A terrible mistake. And you’ve carried the guilt with you for years and years. You know more now. Would you do the same thing again?”

Michael was troubled. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. I wouldn’t want to. I didn’t do it on purpose with Mike. As you said, I just panicked.”

“Then it was an accident. You can’t go back and change it. You taught me that. So let it go.” She kissed him, tenderly at first, then with passion.

“You’re awfully understanding,” said Michael a few minutes later.

“It’s one of the things I’m good at.”

“‘One of’?”

She smiled and kissed him again; answer enough. The picnic basket, the hillside, the sea—all faded from sight. Grayness welled up around them. Two specks of awareness floated in the middle of immensity. After a timeless moment, she said, “Michael?”

“Mmmmn, yes?”

“How long has it been now?”

“Maybe five minutes.”

“Will I stay forever, then?”

“I don’t know, Sarah.”

“Michael?”

“Yes?”

“The hillside in Britain. That was somewhere you’d been, right? Like the beach in Michigan? It was a memory of yours, like Lenny’s Grill was a memory of mine?”

“Yes. I explained that already.”

“But it could be any memory, right? Yours or mine? And you can make us both see it?”

“Sure. Any memory strong enough. I picked those because they were familiar, comforting places. Why? Is there somewhere you want to go?”

“Well, I was thinking. I might fade away any minute. And it would be a shame if...I’ve always wanted.... Oh, hell! My feet are clay, too, Michael. That girl—Jenny?—and her friend. Is that memory strong enough? Can you take me there, Michael? Please?”

Something tugged at her waist, pulled sharply. Her vision went dark. “Michael!”

“I’m here,” said his voice. “It took me a moment to find you again.”

“Why can’t I see you? What’s happening? Oh, Michael, it hurts. You said I’d just fade away. You didn’t say anything about pain. Oh! There it is again. Like someone put a hook in my belly and was reeling me in.”

“You’re not fading away, Sarah, you’re going back. The doctor saved you. You’re going to live.”

“Why can’t I see you? Michael, help me. I’m scared.”

“I’m right here. There’s nothing to be scared of.”

“I want to see you! I want to hold you.”

“You can’t. You’re back in your own brain now. I’m talking to you there. It’s against my rules to talk to live people this way.”

“Damn the rules, Michael. Stay with me. I love you.”

“I love you, too, Sarah.”

“Then stay with me!”

His voice sounded sorrowful. “I can’t. I won’t. You’ll forget most of this. Maybe all of it. If you remember anything, you’ll think it was a dream. Even if you remember it all, we can’t go on together. I can’t follow you out of the hospital. It’s too far from my own body. And if you go around talking to voices in your head when you wake up, people will think you’re crazy. You’ll think so, too, eventually. They’ll lock you up.”

“I won’t forget. I love you.”

“Goodbye, Sarah.”

“I won’t forget!”

“Goodbye.”

“Michael!”

But he was gone, and she was alone.

Sarah sighed sleepily, opened her eyes just a crack. “Thank you, Millie,” she said.

The nurse cocked her head and glanced at Sarah’s chart. “Do I know you, Mrs., um, Miss, ah, Weller? Is it Sarah Jane or just Sarah?”

Despite the painkillers and sedative, Sarah was suddenly completely alert. “Sarah. You’re Millie from ER, right?”

“That’s right. I’m helping out in ICU because they’re short-staffed today. But how do you know me?”

“I remember you.”

“Hmmn?”

“From the ER. When they were operating. You were there.”

Millie looked at Sarah’s chart again. “Honey, you were unconscious before they brought you in, then anesthetized during the operation. You’ve been sedated since then. You just woke up a couple of days ago. You couldn’t remember me.”

“But you were there, right?”

The nurse looked troubled. “Yes, I was. I remember your case now. We almost lost you. But Dr. Fletcher is one of the best. You were lucky he was on duty. But you were out like a light the whole time.” She paused. “You know, the drugs they give you do funny things.” She stuck a finger under her name tag and lifted it away from her uniform a bit. “You saw this, probably, and read my name. Then you dreamed about your operation, and dreamed I was there.”

“What about Burt?”

Shock suffused Millie’s face. “What?”

“Burt. The orderly. The one who likes you. He was there, too.”

Millie looked at her askance. “Who put you up to this? Was it Betty? Catherine? Wait! It was Susan. It had to be. I never should have told her about Burt, and she never should have told a patient. Wait until I get my hands on her.” Millie moved off, still muttering to herself.

Sarah fell back weakly, closed her eyes against the tears the welled up by themselves. It wasn’t a dream, then. Millie was proof. It had happened. She remembered. Michael was real. He was here, somewhere in this hospital.

She called out mentally. Michael?

Silence.

Michael?

Then the drugs took over again, and she slept.

“Told you, only family’s allowed on this floor.”

Sarah hesitated, clutched her purse tighter, and cleared her throat. “I am family. I’m his wife.”

The floor nurse raised an eyebrow. “I been working here for nine months on this floor. Ain’t nobody in all that time come by to see Michael Hansen. I know his chart like the back of my hand, and he ain’t married. Now what’s your game, hon?”

Sarah licked her lips, looked at the floor nurse’s name tag. “I know he’s not married, Mrs. Stempson. Not now. He was. To me, I mean. We’re divorced. Several years ago. I only, um, just found out that he was here. A friend told me.”

Sarah looked at the floor nurse and tried to smile. Stempson was a very large woman, creamy brown in color, with a spotless complexion. Her white uniform was tight across her hips and shoulders. Her face held a no-nonsense look.

“I’m fifty-three years old,” Stempson said at last. “And I raised eight kids. I seen people in every possible kind of situation, and I know when a somebody’s lying through her teeth. Which you are.”

“Please,” Sarah said. “I just need to see him.”

Stempson stared at her a moment longer. “What’s your name?”

“Sarah. Sarah Jane Weller.”

“Changed it back, huh?”

“I, uh—yes.”

“And I suppose all your identification says ‘Weller’ instead of ‘Hansen’? And you ain’t got nothing to prove you was his wife?”

“I, um, no—that is, I don’t think....”

“Not even a picture of the two of you? Nothing?”

Sarah opened her purse, made a show of poking through the contents. “We, uh, didn’t part on good terms,” she said, improvising wildly. “I don’t think I kept anything, but—” She looked up. “I just have to see him. I have to.” Tears trembled at the corner of her eyes. She brushed them away angrily, and looked back at her purse. “Let me look again, maybe there’s....”

Stempson’s huge dark hand closed over Sarah’s, gently, but firmly. “Don’t bother looking no more.”

Sarah jerked her head up. “What? Do you mean you won’t let me see him? There has to be something—”

Stempson shook her head. “You say you were his wife, you must have been his wife. Like I said, I raised eight kids. I seen it all. And I can recognize when a body’s in love, too. You want to see him, go ahead and see him.”

“Uh, Mrs. Stempson—”

“Maggie.”

“Uh, okay, Maggie. Call me Sarah. And thank you.”

“Ain’t no skin off me. But keep your lies simple, hon. Don’t tell no more than you have to, and plan it out ahead of time.”

“I, ah, don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t say nothing. He’s in room 707. Help yourself.”

“It’s been three months, Michael,” she said aloud. “I haven’t forgotten. I won’t forget. I’m fine now. Back at my job, even. But you’re still here, so I had to come see you.”

She waited.

Nothing.

“Michael? Talk to me, please. I know you can. Damn your rules, I don’t care if people think I’m crazy. I’ll know I’m not. I have proof. Things I saw that later turned out true. Millie and Burt. You. You’re here. How would I know that unless I’d really talked to you? Michael, please. Please. Talk to me. I still love you.”

She moved restlessly on the chair. Are you looking through my eyes right now? she wondered. Can you hear me? I was there with you, Michael, and I still don’t understand it all. Where are you when you’re not freewheeling? Are you in there, in your own body? Are you sleeping? Are you dead? You can’t be. God, you can’t be. So talk to me. Please.

She waited. And waited. Michael’s chest rose and fell, but there was no other sign of life.

She closed her eyes. All my life, she thought, I’ve waited to meet the right man. I never married. I had a couple of flings when I was a teenager. A couple more in my mid-twenties. I was sure I was in love every time, but it was just infatuation. And sex. Mustn’t be afraid of honesty—not with you. The sex was good. All sex is good, if it’s shared willingly by people who care about each other. But it wasn’t love. Just infatuation. I learned how to tell the difference, finally.

You made me fall in love with you, Michael. You were kind when I needed kindness. You understood me—the good parts, the bad parts, the things I’d never willingly tell another person. You didn’t look down on me. You didn’t treat me like an object. You didn’t have anything to gain by helping me, but you did it anyway. Dammit, Michael, don’t you understand? I love you.

And in her mind, over and over: I love you, I love you, I love you. Love you. Love.

“Don’t torture yourself,” said a voice in her head.

Michael?

“I’m here, Sarah.”

Michael!

“Sarah, if you love me, you must stop this. Look at me. My body’s a broken, worthless wreck. I’m in a coma, brain-damaged. Can you imagine the torture you’re putting me through? Please. Don’t come here again. Don’t do this to me. To yourself. To us. It can never be what you want, Sarah.”

I don’t care. Do you think I care? So what if your body is damaged? Your mind is alive, and it’s you I love, not your body. I could—

“Could what? Move into the hospital room with me? That’s the only way we could stay together. I’m chained to this body. I can’t go with you. You can’t stay here. And this body is dying, Sarah. Slowly, maybe, but dying. You don’t want to love a dying man. Go out, live your own life. Find someone else.”

I don’t want someone else.

“Dear God, I don’t want you to be with someone else, either, but there’s no choice. You’re better off forgetting me. And I’m better off forgetting you.”

Can’t I just come visit you? Spend some time? Be your friend?

“Be honest. You don’t want to be friends.”

No. I feel too much for you.

“You have glands again, now. But try to rise above it. Leave me alone, Sarah. It’s better for both of us.”

I can’t do that. I love you.

“I love you, too, Sarah. Sweet Jesus, how I love you too.”

His face twitched, and his arms rose. She thought for a moment that he was waking up, was reaching for her. Then the alarm shrilled, and his entire body started jerking. The door banged open. Maggie Stempson pulled Sarah away from the bedside. Two other nurses huddled over Michael. Over her shoulder, as Maggie maneuvered her out of the room, Sarah saw Michael bucking and jerking on the bed, his face twisted in a rictus so tight she wouldn’t have recognized him.

“What—?” she said to Maggie when they were in the hall. “All I did was talk to him. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“It wasn’t nothing you did. He has these seizures all the time. Come back tomorrow, if you want.”

“I want to help. What can I do to help?”

“You can go home,” said Maggie firmly.

Since her first visit, Michael had not responded. He didn’t talk to her, or give any sign that he knew she was there. It didn’t matter. She knew he was alive, that he could hear her. She believed it. She had to believe it.

She brought flowers to the room, and pestered the staff endlessly about ways to make him more comfortable. She brought books from the library about comas and brain physiology, and studied them in his room, confident that, if he wanted, Michael could read along with her by watching through her eyes.

Sometimes, after a particularly bad seizure, he was in intensive care for a day or two, and Sarah fretted until he came back, until she reestablished their routine. They didn’t move him for the milder seizures, the ones that happened several times a day. Maggie Stempson taught Sarah how to tell a grand mal from a petite, how to turn him, how to manipulate his arms and legs to move the blood and prevent atrophy, how to care for his bedsores.

One day when she arrived, Michael’s room was empty. Maggie met her at the nurses’ station, put her beefy hand on Sarah’s shoulder, and said, “He’s back in ICU today. He had another one of his seizures.”

Sarah sagged against Maggie’s huge form. “A bad one? Is he okay?”

“Pretty bad. The doctors won’t allow no visitors. He’ll be there for several days this time, I think. Call me tomorrow.”

Sarah called first thing in the morning. Maggie wasn’t on duty yet. The nurse who answered said Michael was still in ICU, doing as well as could be expected, and that Sarah should call back later. Sarah called again at 9:00 A.M., at 10:00, and at noon. Each time, Michael was still in ICU, still allowed no visitors, and still doing “as well as could be expected.”

Maggie called her shortly after 2:00 P.M. “Honey, can you get off work early?”

Sarah’s chest tightened. “Yes, why? How is Michael?”

“If you can come down here, you should. Soon. Come see me when you get here.”

“Maggie, what’s wrong?”

“Just get down here, Sarah. I’ll talk to you then.”

It took Sarah almost an hour to get out of the office, down to her car, across town, and up to see Maggie. By then, it was too late.

A little boy, victim of a hit-and-run, sat up and swung his legs over the bed as Michael passed. “Hi,” said the boy.

Michael nodded. “I’m Michael. What’s your name?”

“Jimmy.”

“Well, Jimmy, I don’t think you need those tubes and things any more, do you?”

“I guess not,” said the boy. He left his body lying on the bed and stood up. “Hey!” he said as nurses rushed toward him, responding to the alarms. His brown eyes widened as they passed right through him. “Wow. Coolness.”

“Yup. Want to take a walk with me? You can go anywhere you want now.”

“Uh, sure, but what are they doing?”

“Oh, they’ll be fussing for a while. Don’t worry about it.”

Michael took the boy’s hand, and they walked away from the ICU into a memory. Waves lapped their ankles. The sky arched blue overhead. Seagulls screamed and dived in the distance.

“Coolness.” The boy’s body was tanned and healthy under the thin white hospital gown. He pulled his hand from Michael’s and stood staring at the water. “Can I go swimming?”

“You can do anything you want.”

“I don’t have no trunks.”

“Pretend you have them.”

“What good’ll that do?”

“Try it.”

The boy shrugged and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the hospital gown had been replaced by a pair of red swimming trunks. His small chest heaved as he sucked in a breath. “Wow.”

He turned shining brown eyes on Michael. “Can I get anything I imagine?”

“Anything at all, Jimmy.”

Suddenly the boy was holding an ice-cream cone. Just as suddenly, it was gone, replaced by a slice of watermelon. Then the watermelon disappeared, and he held a BB gun. Then, in rapid succession, a slingshot, a steaming plate of mashed potatoes and turkey, a comic book, a GI Joe, a model airplane, a remote-controlled race car, and the ice-cream cone again.

He dropped the cone, and it disappeared before it hit the sand at their feet. He stared at his bare toes, his hair hanging in his eyes.

“What’s the matter, Jimmy?”

“I don’t want that stuff. I thought I did, but I don’t.”

The boy was half-transparent now. “What do you want?” asked Michael gently.

“To be alive again.”

“That’s the one thing you can’t have.” Michael reached over, put his hand on Jimmy’s shoulder. Suddenly the boy buried himself in Michael’s arms, clung tightly. The boy’s skin was warm, but there was no substance. It felt like hugging smoke. The boy was almost completely gone.

“It’ll be okay,” Michael said. He held still until the warmth faded from his arms and he stood alone on the beach. “Goodbye, Jimmy,” he said softly. He turned away from the memory, switched it off like a light.

The world went dim and gray. There were no compass points. No sounds. No smells. No physical sensations. No sense of time. He couldn’t find the hospital again. All directions were the same; all led nowhere. Gray eternity overwhelmed him. He’d lost the connection to his body.

“Oh, shit,” he said, and began to fade.

Sarah sniffled. Maggie handed her a Kleenex.

The doctor went on. “I know this is hard for you. I’m trying to explain as carefully as I know how. The EEG measures brain-wave activity. Until his last seizure, the EEG showed that his brain was still alive. Even conscious from time to time for the first few months. Then, about a year ago, he lapsed into the coma. He had what appeared to be normal dream and sleeping states after that, but couldn’t wake up.”

“I understand all that. What happened? Why did it change?”

“Mrs. Hansen—”

“Weller. Miss.”

“I was told you were his wife?” He glanced sharply at Maggie.

“No, just a friend.”

Maggie frowned, but the doctor looked relieved. “Then our records were right?” he asked.

“Never mind,” said Sarah. “Just tell me what happened.”

“We don’t know, really. His brain was severely traumatized by the original accident. He’s had paralysis and seizures ever since. It’s a miracle he survived as long as he did. There’s always hope, especially when the EEG is near normal, but....” He shrugged helplessly. “We did everything we could, everything humanly possible. But he was gone. The chief of staff agreed to take him off the respirator this afternoon. He was already dead by then—the machine just kept his body going through the motions. Our records showed no next of kin. Then Nurse Stempson told us about you, so we had her call. We would have consulted with you first, naturally, if we’d known. Even if you weren’t his wife—”

“I see. Don’t worry about that part.”

Sarah’s control started slipping. It was all too unreal. Michael was gone, and the fool doctor was worried about a lawsuit. As if that could bring him back. Tears threatened to overwhelm her. Michael! Oh, God, Michael.

Maggie squeezed her hand tightly and spoke up. “Doctor, I been talking to Miss Weller for a long time now, ever since she started coming regular to see Mr. Hansen. We’re friends. I’ll make sure she’s taken care of.”

“Thank you, Nurse Stempson.”

Maggie helped Sarah to her feet. “Come on, honey. Let’s get you some coffee, then we’ll have a long talk.”

Something?

Something!

There. Yes. A pathway he could recognize. Like the pathway to his own body. He flew along it, recognizing each twist and curve. It fit like a glove. Yes, he could go through here. There was a resistance at the end, but he pushed at it, broke through it. Light exploded around him. Vision. Forms against the grayness; shadows; substance. More resistance. He pushed harder. Sound. A voice, warm and compassionate. Saying something. He didn’t listen. It didn’t matter what the voice said, just that he could hear it.

Almost. Almost there. It was tight. No room. The resistance mounted, but he swelled, filled the available space, pushed the resistance away. Out. Into the dark. Away. He pushed again, and suddenly the resistance was gone. Something fled weeping into the eternal darkness. Even as he turned to look, it faded, dissipated, and was gone. Michael expanded, adjusted, oriented himself, flexed his muscles, tested his body from the inside out.

Maggie squeezed his hand. “Sarah, are you okay?”

Michael opened his eyes, looked at Maggie. “I’m fine now,” he said. “Just fine.”