A little ways ahead, at foot level, a line of light appears. I approach, groping through the void until I touch a hard surface. Sweeping with my fingertips, my right hand brushes something round and cold. A doorknob. I turn it, and walk into a room that I know better than any other. A room that has haunted my dreams for the past year.

I enter, leaving the door open behind me. I glance back at the darkness. It looks almost inviting now. Anything’s better than what I’m about to see.

I scan the room. Everything is in place. The framed family photos on the dresser, the scattered chinks of light from the blown-glass chandelier, the mayhem of empty medicine bottles on the bedside table. I take another step, and grief pierces my heart like a knife blade. I know what I will find.

She’s there. On the far side of the bed, curled up on the ground in a fetal position. She lies in a puddle of vomit. It’s spread out around her head in a halo of foamy bile.

“Mom.” My voice is muffled by the thick layers of sadness padding every square inch of the room. Only the rhythmic chattering of my mother’s teeth indicates that she’s alive.

This is the worst part—the part where I try to go to her, but can’t. Where I am stopped by an invisible wall. Where I pound helplessly on it with my fists, screaming at her, screaming for help, but unable to go to her.

But this time is different. My bare feet continue across the thickly carpeted floor. The wall has disappeared. I approach her, crouching down to touch her sweat-drenched hair, and I know what has changed. Why I am allowed past the wall. My mother and I are in the same place: the still and quiet space between our world and the next. Standing on the edge of the precipice. We are both about to die.

7

JUNEAU

THE LANDSCAPE GROWS HARSHER AS WE APPROACH the Arizona border, and signs for Mojave National Preserve begin to appear along the highway. I think back to Mount Rainier, where Miles and I camped. A national park means a lot of out-of-the-way places to hide, which is exactly what we need if Miles is going to wake.

If. That word is like a punch to my gut, and the misgivings I’ve dammed up for the past few hours flood in to drown me.

If. How can two little letters hold so much importance? Wield so much power? How is a single stunted syllable able to threaten a world of pain and simultaneously dangle a glimmering, flashing jewel of hope?

If Miles awakes, he will be a changed person. He will have the gift of life: free of disease and aging. If he doesn’t, then the one person who matters most to me—outside my clan, of course—will be gone. Abruptly. And forever.

I banish the thought from my mind. I glance automatically at the clock on the dashboard and register the fact that it is 5:30 p.m. This is the second time I’ve used a clock in one day, and I feel the shame of compromise. The sun, moon, and horizon are all I’ve needed in the past.

I’m in a new world now, I reason. I should use every modern tool I’m given. If I can add my own skills to the tools the outside world has developed, I will be in a position of strength, instead of handicapped by my lack of knowledge—like I was in the airplane or in Mr. Blackwell’s office at the top of a skyscraper. I must master the rules of this new world. I’ll need every possible advantage to face the unknown enemy who kidnapped my clan.

At the next national park sign I pull off the main road and begin traveling north, following arrows toward Mitchell Caverns. When I reach a fork in the road, I turn away from the tourist site and head east toward some unmarked rock formations. Dark red earth swoops down from one tall mesa and back up into another flat-topped mountain. Gray rocks are stacked around them like children’s blocks. I drive around them and park in their shadows. No one can see us unless they go off-road like I did.

I climb out of the truck into what looks like the surface of another planet. The rock formations look alien, and although there is vegetation—clumps of sagebrush in gray, green, and parched yellow—it look like it’s been tossed carelessly around instead of held to the ground by roots. The earth seems too dry to sustain life. I walk around the truck and open the tailgate. Climbing into the truck bed, I crouch beside the sleeping bag and unzip it.

My heart lurches when I see his face.

Miles’s skin has taken on a sickly purple color. His eyes have begun to film over, white cloud spread over the lake green. This hasn’t happened before. The Rite-travelers’ bodies never deteriorated. Although I feel a stab of panic, I reassure myself that this case is different. It was hot in the back of the truck, and besides . . . my clan members were in perfect health. Miles was already dying. This has to work.

I close his eyelids, smooth back the honey-colored curls, and kiss him lightly on his mottled forehead. “Please come back, Miles,” I urge, and continue unzipping the bag, exposing his overheated corpse to the cooler air in the shadow of the rocks.

He looks too vulnerable, lying there naked. I pull his bloodstained clothes out of my backpack and dress him, shuffling his limp body back and forth until I’ve got him in underwear and jeans. I stand back to look at my work, and something in my heart tugs. An unfamiliar ache that confirms just how much this boy means to me.

I pull myself away and begin setting up camp, pitching the tent between the truck and the rocks. Although we’re hidden, my senses are on high alert. I realize that I’m reacting as I did in Alaska: on continual lookout for brigands. Ready to defend myself against survivors of an apocalypse that never happened. Even though my real-life enemies are nothing like the desperate marauders of my nightmares, they are more frightening because I don’t know what to expect from them. They are unknown entities using unfamiliar methods.