"Is it always like this?" Consuela asked finally.

"Like what?" Sissy said.

"This." Consuela sighed. "A vague feeling grabbing you and hauling you off somewhere to save somebody you've never met. Looking like this." She gestured to herself. "Like tonight. You saw?" She shucked off her skin as if coming home after a long day of work, hanging it neatly in the closet, and curling into the den chair as the fire-skin flickered its gold and ruby light.

"In a manner of speaking," Sissy admitted, pointing at her face. "I've got both eyes in, but I couldn't help noticing the ten o'clock news." She brushed a stray curl off of her cheek. "But if you're asking about the Flow, what we do here . . . ?" Sissy said quietly, turning away from the computer. "Then, yes, it's always like that."

Sissy tipped her pretty face to the ceiling and recited: 'Never ending, never changing. Always beginning, ever changing.'" She glanced back at Consuela. "No one knows the author. There is a lot of poetry in this place."

The Watcher leaned forward, peering into Consuela's empty sockets as if searching for her friend. "Remember my advice? Learn to live with it," she said with emphasis. "Accept it. What we're doing is important; our lives mean something here." Something pa.s.sed over Sissy's face. "Besides, we really don't have any other choice."

The way she said it chilled Consuela to the marrow. Deeper. Maybe outside the flames, everything felt cold.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"We live here until we disappear," Sissy said patiently. "Maybe we don't really die over here." Her voice sounded wistful. "Maybe, when we're gone, we get to go home."

Consuela stopped, stunned. A strange swirling blurred the edges of her vision. She heard a rushing in her ears, even though she had no ears.

"I thought we were at your home . . . ?"

"No." Sissy sat back with deep leather creaks. "This room is how I remember it-my dad's office in the bas.e.m.e.nt, where I did my homework and chatted online." She stroked the armrest, tracing the tiny spiderwebs of cracked, weathered hide. "It's just how I remember it . . ." Her glance at Consuela was both pitying and gentle.

". . . Exactly how I remember it, the moment the seizures started. Multiple organ failure," she said quietly. "Just like how you remember your room, where you first crossed over into the Flow. It's only a memory, Bones. It isn't real."

Consuela stopped. Her throat locked. She felt hot, even without the skin of fire. Then she felt cold and wanted it on. She had to say something. Anything.

But Sissy's words came again, and what they said was, "It isn't real," but they sounded like "I'm sorry."

Launching out of the chair, Consuela yanked open the closet, grabbed her skin, and went for the door.

"Bones . . ." Sissy said.

Consuela didn't listen. I have to go. I have to get out of here . . .

"Consuela? "

She dragged at the door handle, pulling herself out, willing herself away.

"Consuela!"

Consuela felt the wind whip by, a torrent of light and color and almost-sound. She spun into the fondness of her bedroom, closing the door behind her in a comforting clack of painted pine and bronze hardware. Whoooooshsnick.

She's wrong!

Consuela stood in the middle of her room. This is real. This is my room. I couldn't possibly make this all up! She turned in place, taking it all in. I can't have remembered every little detail in my head like that! Every stuffed animal? Every crack in the ceiling? Every sc.r.a.p of paper on the desk? Impossible. There's no way. She felt sorry that Sissy had somehow convinced herself that she was in an imaginary bas.e.m.e.nt, but she, Consuela, was home. This was home. Her home. It even smelled like home . . . Not "like home," she reprimanded herself. It IS home! This is my house! My room!

She dropped her armload of fire-skin onto the floor. It didn't burn, but sat crackling in a little campfire heap. Consuela ran to her closet. All her clothes, her shoes, boxes of photos, even the two other skins, both silvery in the garment bag-everything was here. She rushed to her bathroom. It's still warm, she thought. I couldn't have been gone long . . .

And that's when it hit her.

The bathroom was still foggy with steam, warm and welcoming, perfumed with soap. The scent of lavender clung to the room. Instead of soothing her, she felt afraid. It shouldn't be like this. It should have dissipated by now. Consuela swept her white finger bones against the mirror-she watched the condensation run, a new cloudiness form and, in moments, obscure the gla.s.s back to gray. She'd thrown open the windows. She'd filled the bathtub twice. She'd been gone for hours, at least. Days, maybe?

Never ending, never changing. Always beginning, ever changing.

Consuela spun around, looking for something she couldn't see. She wanted something to be different. Something other than how she remembered it.

It hasn't changed! She felt her panic without a pulse. It hasn't changed one bit since . . .

Since the bath.

The lump.

And her skin on the floor.

Crashing into bed, Consuela burst into tears. Pulling the pillow hard against her mouth, she screamed. She tried to swallow the m.u.f.fled sounds and unmake them. Never happen. Never have happened. She screamed over and over-wordless, wrenching screams-crying until she fell quiet, spent.

The sounds all meant: I want my mom!

He watched her-he always watched over her now-but he did not like to watch her cry.

He moved his hand as if to smooth her hair, but let it fall back into silver.

She didn't need him.

He sat vigil as she slept.

chapter six.

"Tell me how you die and I will tell you who you are."

-OCTAVIO PAZ.

SHE was dreaming. Maybe.

As she stepped out into the hallway, bright pillar candles sprang to life, bathing the hall in a warm, chili-oil glow. The top quarters shone, soft and waxy white like shafts of moonlight topped in gold. Tall candles and orange flowers lined the hall, the scent a weird mixture of autumn and home.

Taking another step was like pa.s.sing into Oz. The colors flipped suddenly into golds and russet reds; white softened to corn yellow and black became plum. Sound pressed a thick blanket against her ears, smothering everything save the deep drumbeat of her pulse. That she could hear clearly. A clock in her heart.

Squinting at one of the candles, Consuela saw something move inside the light. She bent closer to look. Inside the heart of each flame and flower, there was a tiny sort of stick figure, dancing. Skeletons-every one of them-dressed in clothes as she dressed in skins, dancing merrily to a tune she could almost hear.

The men tapped in the candle flames, heels snapping and kicking smartly on the white-hot wick. Proud and joyful, some wore suits or unb.u.t.toned vests, while others pranced in wildly striped ponchos and stiff, wide-brimmed hats. One dancer in particular caught her eye-a mustache curled impossibly over his bony grimace and his sombrero winked as the light caught its silver thread. Consuela felt her face crinkle in a smile as he, undeniably, smiled back.

Skeletal women whirled within the hearts of marigolds, petals blending into their shawls and layered skirts as they twirled, hands on their hips, stepping in time with their bony, bare feet. They were beautiful, equally proud of their richly colored finery and familiarity with the rollicking tune.

All of them smiled, all of them beckoned, welcoming Consuela to the thousand souls' revelry, inviting her to dance.

Consuela gazed at their beauty, the power of their motions, as the petals slowly rotated and the firelight wove in the breeze. She envied the carefree spirits with their sharp boot heels and their cascading hems.

Dia de los Muertos, she marveled. It was as gorgeous as she'd imagined. As a little girl, Consuela had often daydreamed about what the fiesta would be like-only having the words of her grandma Celina to guide her since her parents no longer celebrated. Consuela knew her father missed it, the Day of the Dead. She'd always wished she'd had this growing up, to feel the spirits surround her like old friends and family, not like something scary, but something wonderful and free. To really feel part of something. To feel safe. To believe. Consuela swept giddily down the hall, happiness bubbling out the soles of her feet.

Generations spun and snapped, jostled and turned, danced and cavorted in the sunset glow. The hallway stretched out into s.p.a.ce, its candles and blooms fading into a purpled distance. It was impossible to see where it led, but something in the shadows looked familiar where the candlelight kissed its details: a handle hung in the night s.p.a.ce, slight hints of rectangles, three hinges . . . a door.

Her bedroom door.

It pulled at her. She walked forward in the palpable rhythm of unheard music, the golden perfumes thick in her head and grand, crimson costumes snagged at her eyes . . . Consuela lifted her hand out to touch the door's handle, feeling its silvery coolness, its indigo weight.

One moment, her hand was on the handle, swinging the door open, and then she half woke with her hand on the handle, clicking it closed.

Consuela stepped back into her room in a sort of bewildered fog. Backpedaling softly, her mind whirling like skirts, she pushed herself up against the solid oak of her dresser, giving the door plenty of room.

She blinked, trying to orient herself, but gave up. Willingly. Gratefully. Full reverse.

She crawled slowly into bed, eyes still on the door. Consuela was filled with the childish dread and wonder that behind that door might be nothing familiar, and that anything at all could happen if she tried to step outside.

Cautious, curious, and vaguely suspicious, Consuela closed her eyes and pretended she'd been asleep all along.

At least one part of her wasn't fooled.

SHE lay on the bed, fetal with shock. Her muscles were puddles. Her puddles were tears. Consuela had layered herself in herself-her skin, her pajamas, and her fuzzy slippers-and crawled under the covers, melting her mind to blank.

She was tired. So tired. Weighted to the bed like cold oatmeal. She had no will to move or breathe or blink, but she couldn't sleep. Or maybe she had. She couldn't tell.

Consuela stared, seeing nothing, annoyed by the little things like the cotton gingham sheets catching the fine hairs on her cheek. But not enough to care.

Her eyes slipped in and out of focus, one moment seeing the clock on the nightstand, the next noticing the sharp curve of one of her long hairs on the bed. Fuzzing in, fuzzing out. It was with distant horror that she realized the clock always read 11:19. She blinked. It never changed.

That one thing might make her go mad.

But it took too much energy to go mad-she was exhausted. She was simply too tired to do anything but lie there, thinking of nothing, and pretending that life didn't exist. Life or the Flow-she didn't care which.

Maybe this is death; or worse, h.e.l.l.

Consuela never considered herself a sinful person, worthy of d.a.m.nation, but she supposed that those who were d.a.m.ned never truly saw themselves that way.

But then why did the skin give her such a feeling of powerful completeness? She felt such worthy, effortless energy when she rode the air, such an amazing rush of pure purpose in the flames. And I did good things, didn't I? Or were those people supposed to die? Am I defying G.o.d's will? Or following a false one? Is Sissy a fallen angel? A demon? Maybe she doesn't know. Maybe I don't either. How can anyone really know if they're evil or good or not? Do the ends justify the means? And if you're crazy, logical or not, aren't you just as insane?

There was a subtle sound. A television in the distance, a cat by the curtains, but Consuela didn't own a TV or cat.

* Sorry. *

Consuela sat up and threw off the covers.

"V," she whispered. Her heart slammed and flushed her cheeks. He'd known! He'd tried to tell me!

"V!" she shouted.

Save me! her mind screamed.

She launched out of bed. "I know you're there," Consuela said, although she didn't see him. "V!" She stepped up to her full-length mirror and slammed it with the flat of her hand, leaving a sweaty print on its surface. "V!"

As hard as she glared, she saw only her own face, helpless and angry. She spun away, feeling stupid. Stupid and lost and far from home.

Cupping her hands over her face, she took a deep breath. Her forehead burned. Her eyes ached from crying, the skin puffy and raw. She saw her window reflected in the mirror under the smudge of her handprint.

And she remembered: she didn't have to wait. Joseph Crow said she could find anyone in the Flow. Anyone at all.

Turning discreetly away from the mirror, she shucked her clothes and her skin and left them in a pile on the bed. Bare-boned, Consuela headed for the door.

She stopped suddenly with an odd sense of foreboding.

She'd dreamed this-a series of dreams-but she couldn't hold on to the images, only the feelings. A wild, chaotic spinning sensation and the familiar smell of oil, orange peels, and smoke.

Consuela hesitated, then threw open the door . . .

There was nothing there. No hallway. No carpet. No family portrait. No walls. No floor. A misty, shifting nocolor cascaded, achingly slow, as if she had opened her bedroom door inside of a cloud. But it was thicker, with flashes of light and m.u.f.fled rainbows in the gray. Consuela stared at the raw, fathomless Flow, too awed to scream. It was as if that necessary piece was back in her natural skin.

She considered the awfulness, feeling around for what to do next.

The void stayed outside her door. She seemed safe in her room. Safe, but trapped. If she was going to leave, she'd have to brave the nothingness. She had found Sissy by simply wanting to see her. V said that intention was key. There was only one way to find out and she wasn't eager to try it, but she didn't want to stay cooped up in her room either.

Consuela lifted her foot off the carpet, leaned into the first step purposefully, thinking of finding V . . .

Her foot came down. She felt the air whoosh apart. . . . and swirled into a wide, wooden temple painted a dull bronze, resplendent with an ancient gong. Consuela looked back. Her bedroom door wasn't there. That wasn't so bad. An unfamiliar silence pushed on her eardrums, an odd, smothering Zen. Even the air felt heavier here. She had no idea where she was, but it was nowhere she had been before. Consuela tiptoed to the base of an altar featuring a gorgeous Buddha lovingly nestled in a field of incense sticks. She explored an empty prayer room and stepped outside. She touched the smooth trunk pendulum of the giant gong, pulled back its creaking rope, and rang a single, full-throated note, scattering small birds out of the eaves. But no one came to greet her. Consuela took a deep breath and stepped purposefully . . .

. . . onto a rocky beach with no stone smaller than a baby's fist. Cold wind tugged at her hair and the sky was a washed-pale slate blue. A low-hanging lip of some forgotten cave beckoned and Consuela ducked inside. Kneeling down, she saw a natural pocket in the porous rock; sharp, black holes that looked like Swiss cheese. The nook held little-boy treasures-metal jacks, a ball of salty-dry twine, and a tiny toy car made of painted steel, missing one of the front tires and a pa.s.senger door. She laid them gently back in their hollowed-out notch and crawled out into the wind. Consuela scanned the beach, empty and vast; she seemed the only person in a world filled with no-longer people and their last memories. No one's here. She didn't mind exploring the Flow, but right now she had to find V. Get out. Get home. She tried to picture the idea, the "feeling" of V . . .

. . . and swirled onto a gra.s.s-lined sidewalk running along a chain-link fence. Across the street was an entrance to a redbrick high school, its gla.s.s doors shiny and wide. The school was empty, as were the streets and the concrete steps. She walked over to the lone figure propped up against a crab-apple tree. Wish didn't even turn to look.

"Hi," Consuela said wearily. "Is V here?"

Wish squinted as if looking into the sun. "Nope. Just left."

She felt better now that she was closer. "Which way?"

Wish shook his head. "You won't find him. He's in the Mirror Realm."

"Oh, I'll find him."

Wish snorted. "Not in the Mirror Realm." He threw a pebble off to one side. It bounced into the street and lay still. "It's not part of the Flow." Wish picked up another.

Consuela crossed her arms at the edge of the pavement, seething, desperate. The wind brushed the tree leaves. Another pebble danced across the road.