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  She wanted to smile, but she was already smiling. She realized she’d always been smiling on the inside. Now she could see it—her perfect white teeth in two, perfect lines: her forever-smile. Admiring herself, she knew that this was her.

  This is who I am, she thought. The rest is just skin.

  She looked down at the empty suit of Consuela Chavez, feeling curiously detached. She picked it up and inspected her surface body, feeling the soggy weight of it in her hands. Consuela knew there should be muscles and organs and blood—and pain?—but there wasn’t. There was only the skeleton and her skin.

  She cradled it in her arms like a precious thing, a gown of tan silk with black satin fringe, and hung it gently on the door hook to dry.

  She laughed.

  Consuela felt suddenly, impossibly whole. Shining. Pure. Powerful. Alive! She knew that Consuela Chavez, high school good girl smiling shyly in the back of the room, never felt like this. But, like this—for the first time in her life—she felt like the real Consuela Louisa Aguilar Chavez. Completely.

  As if imagined, she heard a whisper like music.

  // Know thyself. //

  Consuela turned in the hazy glow, tracking the sound. She didn’t see anyone, but she had the feeling of being . . . not “watched,” but “observed.”

  She stepped toward the mirror and gently wiped away the clouded moisture. Condensation dripped like tears where her bones scraped the glass. She tried peering into the silvery reflection.

  A pair of lips surfaced. Smiled. Withdrew.

  She stepped back.

  The ghost of violin sound quieted and she was alone.

  Consuela tapped the mirror. Nothing but glass. The steam slowly obscured it once more.

  Know thyself.

  The air slipped like a secret between her pieces. She suddenly needed to feel the world breathing. Consuela climbed onto the edge of the bathtub, unlocked the window, and let the night in.

  Her nonexistent eyes slipped closed in their sockets as she arched her back, gripping the edges of the windowpane like a pirate ship’s Jolly Roger in full sail. Consuela let the wind buffet her and blow in-through-around her body. Like an autumn gust through apple trees, it smelled crisp and wild and real. She wanted to feel it—wear it like a second skin.

  The thought came out of nowhere, but it seemed so logical, effortless. Why not? Consuela stepped onto the window ledge, curling to sit on the sill, legs dangling out the second-story window high above the porch. The air swam like tadpoles around her toes. She slipped a foot in.

  She watched her toes disappear into the wind, although she still felt them there, buoyant and cool. Consuela reached down, pulling the edge of air up her legs, under her knees. It felt more comfortable than any pair of jeans she’d ever owned.

  She stood up before she’d realized what she’d done: slipping the skin of air over her butt, she was now suspended in nothing at all. Threading her arms into sleeves of breezes and cupping a mask of wind to her face, she inhaled the intoxicating scent of seasons and pulled it impossibly over her head. The seam up her back slipped closed and sealed.

  The world snapped open.

  The world snapped shut.

  Consuela opened her eyes to the roar of the weather. She smelled the northerly wind and saw its currents run. Like a moving sidewalk, a river road, paths rushed and parted as they rode warm and cool hillocks of pressurized air.

  Consuela stepped out onto one of them. Turning east, she rode it like a comet into the night.

  chapter two

  “Death as nostalgia, rather than as the fruition or end of life, is death as origin. The ancient, original source is a bone, not a womb.”

  —OCTAVIO PAZ (ref. to Villaurrutia’s Nostalgia de la Muerte)

  THIS place called to her. Consuela had never seen it before, not really, although she’d passed the park many times, but this was the first time she was truly aware of it. The little park bench pulled at her. She could feel it in her bones.

  She blew past the concrete sign reading SUNRISE PARK framed in potted marigolds and mulch-covered earth, down the gravel path, and toward the person hunched in a worn leather jacket. The young man stared at his hands, ignoring the cold, while absently flipping a butterfly knife.

  Consuela watched the thin silver blade spin like a toy pinwheel. The man stared at it with an intense, childlike fascination; the scene carried with it an undertone of blood. She circled around him to look at his face.

  Haunted, was the first word that rang in her mind. Scared. Determined. Awful. Alone. He stared at the knife wheel—past it, through it—something pressing upon his thoughts like a stone, slowly pushing him toward resolve. Consuela could feel his anxieties, his fears, like a ripple in her mind.

  Suicide.

  She realized that he was waiting for something; some sign to prove that this was right. But this wasn’t right. It was wrong, she knew, although she was surprised to find that she wasn’t afraid about witnessing a possible suicide. It was something out of balance, off course, and worth correcting.

  She was calm, distant, slipping silently on feet of breeze. Although he didn’t see her, she knew that he felt her there because he was so attuned to finding something, he couldn’t help but hear her. She wanted him to hear, so she told him:

  “Don’t.”

  He jerked up—surprised, embarrassed, and angry. He glared around with staggered glances, like a startled moth, seeing nothing, erratic and unsure. His fear was almost comical. Consuela smiled her forever-smile.

  “Don’t,” she said again, and let her fingertips of air lift the hairs from his brow, drying them instantly of sweat and fear. His breath came coughing in short gasps.

  “Breathe,” she advised. He did. She listened as his lungs filled with the smell of forest pine, his senses tickling him back to wakefulness and away from the ledge in his mind. He sighed, relieved. She ruffled his hair playfully and helped him to stand, the strength of the wind lifting him up like a child.

  “Go home,” she said gently. “Go.”

  The knife found its way into his back pocket, forgotten. He crossed himself reverently and kissed a gold cross hanging from its chain around his neck. Dropping his eyes, he left quickly. Consuela watched him go.

  Peace trickled in.

  She stood quietly by the park bench, watching the nettles tremble and the dead leaves turn; soft, rustling sounds after the lingering crackle of danger had passed. She’d stopped someone from hurting himself—maybe dying. Consuela smiled to herself as she turned the thought over in her mind. She hadn’t felt nervous or afraid or embarrassed in the least; she’d just done it. Like she was meant to do it. Like she was meant to be here. To stop him.

  She jumped when a phone rang.

  Consuela knelt in the windblown garbage that had collected under a tree, following the insistent, electronic buzz. She found the cell phone buried beneath a crumpled newspaper, jammed inside the remains of an open Happy Meal box. She pressed the green button, answering it.

  “Hello?” she said while realizing that the call couldn’t possibly be for her.

  “I see you,” a gentle voice said with a hint of humor. “Care to see me?”

  Consuela turned in place on the balls of her feet, searching. She wasn’t afraid, but she was curious. “Yes.”

  “Good,” said the girl’s voice. “See a yellow-gray light?” Somehow, Consuela was not surprised that she could. It stretched like some dull reflective tape through space. “Follow it to me. Leave the cell phone on—it’s your receiver. Oh, and bring the box.” The connection cut.

  Obediently, Consuela tucked the flimsy container under one arm. Something rattled inside it, but she didn’t bother to check. She held the cell phone out like a divining rod—an invisible flashlight searching the dark corners of nothing—and followed the sulfurous trail into dawn.

  CONSUELA entered a comfortable room of plush carpet and indirect lighting. A basement office, she figured, given the lack of windows and the large
computer screen. A young woman about Consuela’s age, maybe a little older, sat in an oversized leather chair, the kind pulled tight and bulleted with brass buttons.

  Consuela thought that the girl was meant to be pretty, someone from a wealthy prep school or senior class president—suede skirt, expensive shoes, soft sweater, pearl earrings, and perfect waves of honey-colored hair framing a face that was half gone. It was odd how that didn’t bother Consuela more.

  Without a word, Consuela offered both the cell phone and the Happy Meal box to the girl’s left hand—the right one was noticeably missing at the wrist.

  “Thank you,” the young woman said as she took the phone and shut it off, placing it to the right of the mouse pad on her desk. She set the box in her lap and delicately reached inside. “My name is Cecily Gardner. Call me ‘Sissy,’” she said with an amused chirp. “Wait a minute, I want to get a good look at you . . .”

  Sissy withdrew her hand from the container and dropped something into a tall glass of water. An eyeball bobbed gently to the surface, its blue iris spinning lazily like a planet. Sissy fished inside, plucking it up, and tapped her wrist against the edge of the glass, shaking the excess moisture free. Sweeping her hair aside, she rolled the eyeball expertly at the top of her cheek; thumbing it into the socket with a soft, wet pop. She blinked and wiped away a tear. Both blue eyes turned to look at Consuela.

  “There you are.” Sissy smiled with genuine welcome. “I watched you with Rodriguez. You did everything like a pro.”

  Consuela wasn’t quite sure what to say. She was a mixture of things—shocked, curious, anxious, afraid—but it was blunted, folded in a soft, airy blanket in her chest. She felt oddly peaceful and serene.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “You’re welcome.” Sissy turned to type something single-handedly into the computer. She hit enter with a flick of finality and swiveled the chair to face Consuela. “Do you want to sit down? Something to drink?” Consuela didn’t know. She hadn’t thought about fleshy things in a while. Sissy seemed to understand. “How do you feel?” she asked.

  “Strange,” Consuela said truthfully, “but in a good way. Powerful, light . . .” She hesitated, laughing a bit. “It’s tough to describe. Could be that it’s the air I’m wearing.”

  Sissy nodded. “Do you want to take it off?”

  Can I? Consuela wondered.

  “There are some hangers in the closet,” Sissy added, gesturing with her left hand at a tall, open door. Consuela wafted over, trying on the idea of hanging up her skin like a coat. She slipped her fingers into the lump at the base of her skull, unzipped the seam of her spine, and stepped out of the invisible covering as easily as she had her own skin. Choosing a heavy wooden hanger, she threaded it into the empty shoulders. Her suit of air hung in the closet, where it swayed gently in its breeze.

  “Beautiful.” Sissy had been watching and breathed her approval. Her left fingers curled demurely in her lap. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. You’re the first person who’s . . .” She shook her head, admonishing herself. “Sorry. First things first: do you have any questions?”

  “Questions?” Consuela gaped.

  “I’m obliged to ask,” Sissy said.

  Only about a million . . . “Where are we?” Consuela asked.

  Sissy smirked. “Not an easy one for starters, but I’ll try my best. We’re in an image of my father’s office in the basement of our home in the Valley. On the other hand, we’re in a sort of reality running parallel to the real world—we call it the Flow—and you are somewhere between Bristol, Wisconsin, and Aurora, Illinois, and I’m slightly north of Los Angeles. Does that help?” Sissy said with a grin.

  Consuela shook her head, laughing despite herself. “No.” She could appreciate the humor of a ridiculous situation.

  “I wouldn’t think so,” Sissy said. “May I preempt the next question?”

  “Sure.”

  “‘Why are we here?’” Sissy swiveled in her chair. “That’s a somewhat easier question. You and I exist in both worlds, although this one only admits people like us. Everyone here can do things, things that affect the real world, usually for specific people and usually for specific reasons. Mainly, we keep certain people from dying before their time.”

  Consuela’s mind spun, thoughts and implications whizzing around her head; she couldn’t seem to settle on just one. She wondered aloud, “Like who?”

  “Like Tony Rodriguez. Like Sophia Crane. Like little Killian O’Shea, not six weeks old in his bed in Roxbury.” Sissy recited the names with pride.

  “I don’t understand,” Consuela said. “What’s so important about them?”

  Sissy shrugged. “I don’t know. We don’t know,” she said. “Sorry. No one here really knows. There are theories, but nothing solid. New people arrive here all the time, replacing those who’ve recently left. It’s a temporary position for who knows how long, but in the meantime, we just do what we came here to do—what we’re meant to do. Save these select people from dying prematurely, however we can with whatever we’ve got. It’s who we are. You understand.”

  Consuela recalled the pride at recognizing herself in the bathroom mirror. Know thyself.

  “Yes,” she admitted. “But I’m still confused.”

  “Welcome to the club!” Sissy laughed.

  Consuela tried a new topic. “So who are you?”

  “Me?” Sissy sounded genuinely surprised by the question. “Well, that’s simple enough. I am Cecily Amelia Gardner, the one watching over us. The Watcher.” She placed French-manicured fingernails against her necklace, a small blue bead on a silver thread.

  Consuela hesitated. She didn’t mean to be rude, but the meaning of the necklace—if there was any—was lost on her. “What is it?”

  “This? This is me.” Sissy held the bead up for Consuela to see: a tiny sphere of cobalt glass pockmarked with rough circles of milky white. Like Sissy’s eyeball in reverse. “It’s Greek,” she said. “An ‘All-Seeing Eye’ bead. Appropriate for a Watcher, don’t you think?”

  “I’m not sure,” Consuela confessed. “Should it be?”

  “There’s always been a Watcher, like there’s always been the Flow,” Sissy said matter-of-factly. “People like us have always existed.” She crossed her legs primly at the ankles and shook her hair from her face. Consuela noticed that Sissy was missing one ear. “The Flow’s been here as long as people have, maybe longer. The animals might have had their own spirit-selves here.” She flipped her hair over her shoulder. “Maybe they still do—it would explain Joseph Crow.”

  Consuela shook her skull. What Sissy said sounded strange, far stranger than walking around without skin. “Who’s Joseph Crow?”

  Sissy winked playfully. “You’ll see when you meet him.”

  Consuela waited for Sissy to continue, but there was only silence. “Sorry,” she said, “but I still don’t understand.”

  “Think of it this way: ‘guardian angels’ might be too Hallmark or sacrilegious or something, but it’s the closest thing I can think of. Spirit guides, maybe.” Sissy rested her hand against the keyboard. “I’ve talked with some of the others, but no one has anything more than vague ideas. Frankly, we can debate until we turn to dust. Me, I choose to accept it and do my job.”

  “Your job?” Consuela asked.

  “Helping people,” Sissy said with a smile. “Best job there is.”

  Consuela appreciated Sissy’s answer. Its simplicity was refreshing, although thinking about it made her head hurt. How do we help people by removing our body parts or skin ... ?

  Sissy leaned forward in her chair, the leather creaking under her weight. “Can I ask you a question?”

  Consuela nodded. “Sure.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Consuela Louisa Aguilar Chavez,” Consuela said, and lifted her hand, her skeleton shining like pearls under glass. She stared, fascinated. “Bones,” she said aloud, then laughed.

  “Your last answer was
truer,” Sissy said.

  Consuela turned her hands over, nodding. “Bones, then.”

  Sissy offered her a slightly awkward left-handed shake.

  “Welcome to the Flow, Bones.”

  THERE was a crashing and breaking of twigs as he came. He swatted stalks of bamboo out of his way and splintered the crunchy, dead things underfoot. When he hit the clearing, it might as well have been with his fist.

  Fish scattered from the surface of the pond, orange and white ghosts vanishing into blackness. Nikki looked up, startled and sad. But then, Nikki was always sad.

  Nikki knelt by his dark pool, crying flowers for boys who could not cry for themselves. Tiny pink blossoms fell from his eyes and were carried out to the sunless sea, or taken by the koi fish that brought them somewhere deeper. His hands lay in his lap, his enormous sleeves hung like bells. He made no move to cover his bare chest through his open kimono shirt.

  As if indifferent to his guest, Nikki glanced to where the fish had gone, their passage marked only by the ripples of shadow on light.

  “I will not do this,” he said quietly, licking some of the gloss from his lips. His eyelids dropped, weighed by blue eye shadow and heavy liquid liner. “You are wrong to try and stop it, and I’ll aid you no longer.”

  The interloper drew out a sword, black and pitted from tang to tip.

  Nikki neither flinched nor fled, but stood, bowing a fraction—a flowery sort of bravery—before evoking his power. It thrummed under his voice, making it deeper.

  “Please, Jason, let me . . .”

  Before he could finish, the blade whipped out in a contemptuous arc, severing Nikki’s head from his neck. The thin body crumpled in a pile of sorbet-colored silk. The head rolled into the long grass with an expression of gentle, openmouthed surprise.

  The assassin sheathed his sword slick with blood and spinal fluid. He did not want to be called “Jason” nor did he want what Nikki offered. It was an insult. A weakness. He glared at the vacant waters—not one tear shed for him.