He laughs like he’s embarrassed. “God,” he says, then covers his face with his hands. “I’m going home.” He uncovers his face and smiles at me sheepishly. “But maybe when we get back to school. I mean it. An official date.”

A date. I flash back to prom two years ago, the way it felt to stand in the circle of Christian’s arms while we danced, enveloped by his smell, his warmth, gazing up into his eyes and feeling like I’d finally broken through with him, that he was finally seeing me.

Of course, that was before Kay had a meltdown and Christian opted to take her home instead of me.

He sighs. “I’m never going to live that down, am I?”

“Probably not.”

“So that’s a no, then?”

“No.”

“No?”

“I mean no, it’s not a no. It’s a yes. I will go out with you.” I don’t even need to think about it. With us it’s always been forest fires and formal dances and funerals. Don’t we deserve something normal for once? And it’s been more than six months since I broke up with Tucker. It’s time, I decide, to give this thing with Christian a shot.

“I’m thinking dinner and a movie,” he says.

“I’d love to go to dinner and a movie.”

And now we suddenly don’t know what to say to each other, and my heart is beating fast, and the men are shoveling the last layer of earth over Walter Prescott.

“I’m going to—” I point up the hill toward my own mother’s grave, a simple marble headstone under the aspens.

He nods, then shoves his hands in his pockets and makes his way down toward his truck. I watch him drive away. When he’s gone, I climb the hill, pausing on the concrete stairs that I saw so often in my vision last year. The cemetery seems different to me now, in the snow: uglier, colder, a gray, deserted place.

I stand for a few minutes, looking at my mother’s grave. There’s a smudge of dirt on the top corner of the headstone, and I rub at it with my gloved hand, but I can’t get it to come clean.

Some people go to cemeteries to talk to the person who died. I wish I could do that, but the minute the words Hi, Mom come out of my mouth, I feel stupid. She’s not here. Her body, maybe, but I don’t really want to think about her body here, under the earth and snow. I know where she is now. I saw her in that place, walking into the sunrise, making her way from the outer edge of heaven. She’s not here, in that box, under the ground.

I wonder if, when I die, I’ll be buried here, too.

I walk to the chain-link fence at the edge of the graveyard, stare past it into the snow-filled forest beyond. I feel something then, a familiar sadness, and I know who has joined me.

“Come out,” I call. “I know you’re there.”

There is a moment of silence before I hear footsteps in the snow. Samjeeza emerges from the trees. He stops a few feet from the fence, and a sense of déjà vu washes over me. I throw up a mental wall between us, blocking him from my mind. We stare at each other.

“Why are you here, Sam?” I ask. “What do you want?”

He makes a small noise in the back of his throat. He has one hand in the pocket of his long leather coat, and I wonder if he’s fingering the bracelet I gave him, my mother’s bracelet, the only thing he has left of her.

“Why did you give it to me?” he asks after a long moment. “Did she ask you to?”

“She told me to wear it to the cemetery.”

He bows his head. “The first time was in France,” he says. “Did she ever tell you?” He smiles and glances up, something alive in his eyes. “She was working at a hospital. The moment I saw her, I knew she was something special. She had the divine handprint all over her.”

So that’s it, I think. He wants to tell me about my mother. I should stop him, tell him I’m not interested, but I don’t. I’m curious to know what happened.

He moves closer to the fence, and I hear the faint crackle of his gray electricity running through the metal. “One day she and the other nurses went to a pond at the edge of the town to swim in their undergarments. She was laughing at something one of the other girls said, and then she felt my eyes on her and looked up. The other girls saw me too, and made a dash for their clothing on the shore, but she stayed where she was. Her hair was brown then, because she dyed it, and short for a woman’s, just at the chin, but I loved the way it curled against her neck. She walked up to me. She smelled like cloud and roses, I remember. I was frozen there, staring, feeling so strange, and she smirked and reached into my front pocket, where I always kept a packet of cigarettes for the look of it more than anything, and she took one and put the package back and said, ‘Hey, Mister, make yourself useful and give me a light, will you?’ It took me a moment to realize that she wanted me to light her a cigarette, but of course I didn’t have a lighter, and I said so, and she said, ‘Well, a fat lot of good you are then, aren’t you?’ and turned and left me.”

He seems charmed by the memory, but I don’t like it. That isn’t the mother I know, this saucy cigarette-smoking brunette that he seems so enthralled with.

“It was a while before I could get her to talk to me again. And longer still before she let me kiss her—”

“Why do you think I would want to hear this?” I interrupt.

The corner of his mouth quirks up in a sly smile. “You’re very much like her, I find.”

A cold draft of air slips up my sleeves and along my arms, and I pull my coat tighter around me. I’m safe for the moment, on this side of the fence. Hallowed ground. But I will have to leave it sometime.

“Tell me a story about her,” he says. “Something small.” He gazes at me calmly with his gold eyes. “Something new.”

I take a nervous breath. “This is why you’re stalking me? For stories?”

“Tell me,” he says.

My thoughts scramble for something to offer him. Of course I have so many memories of my mother, random ones and stupid ones, times I was mad at her because she’d suddenly stopped being my best friend and turned into my mother, set boundaries for me, punished me when I crossed them, tender moments when I knew she loved me more than anything else in the world. But I don’t want to share any of these stories with him. Our stories don’t belong to him.

I shake my head. “I can’t think of anything.”

His gaze darkens.