“Exactly like the nightmare, I assume. You’re remembering a story I told you and conflating it with the current events of your life to parse out meaning.”

“Now you sound like Alice.”

“Well, you’ve got a little bit of her stored up in here too. You keep everyone you love close, Natalie. You keep bits of them within you. You let every person you meet affect you.”

“I wish I didn’t let them affect me so much.”

“You must be feeling uprooted now that you know the truth about the accident,” she says. “Like your family is no longer a safe place, and if they aren’t, what is?”

“If you say so, I must. Since you’re just a product of my consciousness.”

“You’ve got some nerve, girl,” she says.

“I learned from the best. Before you left me.”

Grandmother’s knowing smile falters. She leans over her knees toward me, reminding me of Alice. “I’ll never leave you. Don’t forget that,” she says.

Did she actually say that? I try to remember. I don’t think she did, but still, it feels so real I believe her, this dream version of Grandmother. I must really think that, deep down, or at least want it, to be able to conjure up those words from her now.

“Now sit back and let me tell you this story,” she says.

“Again,” I point out.

“Again. One day God spoke to a man called Abraham. ‘Abraham,’ he said, ‘take Isaac’—or Ishmael, depending on who’s telling it—‘your son whom you love more than your own life, and go to Moriah, where you will sacrifice him on a mountain.’

“And hearing and knowing God, Abraham obeyed, taking his son and two servants on a journey to Moriah. When he saw the mountain God had chosen, Abraham told his servants to wait at the bottom while he and Isaac went to worship. ‘Then we will come back to you,’ Abraham told his servants, for he knew God would not lead him into danger. He wouldn’t cause Abraham pain.

“As they climbed, Abraham chose wood to build the sacrificial fire. He passed it to Isaac, who said, ‘Father, where is the lamb to be offered?’

“‘God will provide,’ Abraham told his beloved son, and they kept climbing. When they reached the summit, Abraham strained his ears, listening for God’s voice, but when he heard nothing he built the altar and bound Isaac to it. Though he began to be afraid, he still trusted that God loved him, that he would not lead him to slay his son without reviving him again. And so he raised his knife over Isaac’s heart, and finally he heard God speak again.

“‘Abraham, Abraham,’ God said. ‘Set down your knife. Do not harm your son. I’ve seen your heart, and I know you withhold nothing from me. You know my face as that of your father. You recognize my love for you, as you know your own for Isaac. You know what you would do for your child, and you understand that is what I’d do for you.’

“Abraham released his son then, and when he looked up to the bramble, he saw a ram with its horns caught in the brush. Together, they sacrificed the ram, which had been sent to take Isaac’s place. From then on, they called that place God Provides.”

“Why did they have to sacrifice anything?”

“It was a symbol,” Grandmother explains. “Of an innocent dying on behalf of someone else—the greatest act of love. A choice to die so someone else doesn’t have to.”

“Your stories are full of symbols, aren’t they?”

“Every great story has sacrifice,” Grandmother says.

“Don’t you think saying that goes against your ‘we can’t apply Anglo-Saxon context and standards to Native stories’ mantra?”

“Yes,” she says. “But I never said that. You did.”

Someone’s saying my name. A low voice that lilts and drawls. Hands squeeze my shoulders, push my hair from my face. “Natalie, wake up.”

I blink against sleep to see full lips, dark hair, and hazel eyes, all shaded by darkness, hovering over me. My head is inexplicably throbbing, and the hoots of owls and rustle of nightlife surround me. “Beau?”

He helps me sit up. “Where am I?” I ask before I can register that I’m lying on the cool cement of Megan’s back patio.

“I’ve been calling you for hours,” Beau says, gently cradling the back of my neck. “What happened? Are you all right?”

“My phone,” I say, fighting back the lingering confusion. “I threw it in the woods.”

His eyebrows flick up in surprise, but his usual soft, heavy smile is missing, his shoulders hunched and tense.

“What’s wrong?” I say, touching his lips.

His eyelids dip. “Kincaid’s awake.”

“Both of them?” It’s little more than a whisper.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I’ve been losing track of time more and more. No one else seems to notice, but it’s like I’m missing for hours at a time. I woke up standing in my room with my phone in my hand and a voice mail from Rachel.”

“Have you seen him yet?”

He shakes his head. “I wanted to find you first.”

What happened to me? Where have I been for hours? I wrap my arms around Beau and press my forehead against his heart. “What’s happening to us?”

He strokes the back of my head. “I don’t know.”

Maybe our Closings are happening, but there’s more to it than that. All these things are connected—Grandmother’s stories, her warning, our two worlds, and our missing time. “I’m scared,” I tell Beau, and he kisses me, his way of both comforting me and admitting he feels my fear too.

He lets out a long exhale. “There’s something else.” I pull away from him so I can see his eyes while he tells me. “I don’t know what it means,” he says, shaking his head. “But I saw your family.”

“What? When? They’re not here. They’re—”

“I know.” He nods. “They must’ve been my version. At a gas station, lots of stuff in the backseat, like maybe they were just passing through. Your brother was wearing a St. Paul’s sweatshirt. Think maybe he goes there, or went there, or—I don’t know.”

“I don’t understand—I wasn’t with them?”