Wai-Mae was waiting for them in the forest. Seeing Ling, she broke into a grin. “You’ve come back! I knew you would!”

“Wai-Mae, this is Henry, the other dream walker I told you about,” Ling said, nodding to Henry. “Henry, this is Wai-Mae.”

Henry bowed courteously. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Wai-Mae.”

“He is very handsome, Ling. He would make a nice husband,” Wai-Mae said in a whisper that was not a whisper at all. Ling’s face went hot.

Henry cleared his throat and said, with a formal bow, “Well, if you ladies will kindly excuse me, I’m off to meet a friend. I wish you sweet dreams.” He turned and walked down the path until he disappeared into the fog.

“I have a surprise for you,” Wai-Mae announced.

“I hate surprises,” Ling said.

“You will like this one.”

“That’s what people always say.”

“Come, sister,” Wai-Mae said, and Ling stiffened as Wai-Mae linked arms with her, just like the schoolgirls who often passed by the Tea House’s front windows, talking and laughing. But Ling had never been terribly girlish or giggly or affectionate. “You’re not much for a cuddle, are you, my girl?” her mother would say with a wan smile, and Ling couldn’t help feeling that she was letting her mother down by being the sort of daughter who enjoyed atoms and molecules and ideas instead of hugs and hair ribbons. Her mother would probably love Wai-Mae.

Wai-Mae’s mouth didn’t stop the entire walk. “… and you can be Mu Guiying, who broke the Heavenly Gate Formation. I will be the beautiful, beloved Liang Hongyu, the perfect wife of Han Shizhong, a general. She helped to lead an army against the Jurchens and was buried with the highest honor, a proper funeral befitting the Noble Lady of Yang.…”

All of Wai-Mae’s stories were romances. Oh, so you’re one of those, Ling thought, the girls who see the world as hearts and flowers and noble sacrifice. Wai-Mae led Ling deeper into the forest, and while Wai-Mae chattered away about opera, Ling noticed that the dreamscape was even more vibrant than it had been the night before. The crude sketches of trees had been filled in with rich detail. Ling ran her palm over scalloped bark. It was rough against her hand, and she couldn’t help but touch it again and again, grinning. A sprig of pine needles hung invitingly from a branch. Ling pulled and a handful of needles came away. She brought them to her nose, inhaling, then examined her fingers. No resin, no smell, she noted.

“We’re almost there!” Wai-Mae chirped. “Close your eyes, Little Warrior,” Wai-Mae insisted, and Ling did as she was told. “Now. Open.”

Ling gasped. Golden light bled through the breaks in the line of gray trees. Here and there, mutated pink blooms sprang up. Red-capped mushrooms poked their fat heads above the patchy tufts of grass that tumbled down into a verdant meadow rippling with colorful flowers. In the distance, a rolling line of purple mountains brushstroked with hints of pink rose tall behind an old-fashioned village of Chinese houses whose pitched tile roofs tilted into smiles. So much color! It was the most beautiful thing Ling had ever seen inside a dream—even more beautiful than the train station.

“Where are we? Whose dream is this?” Ling asked.

“It doesn’t belong to anyone but us,” Wai-Mae said. “It’s our private dream world. Our kingdom.”

“But it had to come from somewhere.”

“Yes.” Wai-Mae smiled as she tapped her forehead. “From here. I made it. Just as I did the slippers.”

“All of this?” Ling asked. Wai-Mae nodded.

Ling couldn’t imagine how much time and energy it must’ve taken. This was more than transmutation. This was creation.

“There’s something magical about this place. We can make new dreams. We can make everything beautiful.” Wai-Mae bit her lip. “Would you like to learn how?”

“Show me,” Ling said. “Show me everything.”

Wai-Mae marched to a puny, half-formed tree at the top of a hill. “Here. Like this. Watch.”

Wai-Mae threaded her fingers through the wispy leaves, holding tight. She closed her eyes, concentrating. The bark moved like melting candle wax, and then, with a great groaning, the trunk shot up several feet. Massive branches reached out in every direction, bursting with pinkish-white flowers.

Wai-Mae fell back with a gasp. “There you are,” she said, wiping a hand across her brow.

Dogwood blossoms drifted down toward the girls. One landed in Ling’s hair. She pulled it free, rubbing the velvety petal between her thumb and forefinger, feeling something primal in its core, some great electrical connection to all living things. If she’d been a true scientist, she would have shouted “Aha!” or “Eureka!” or even “Holy smokes!” But there were no words that she could summon to communicate the magic of the moment.

“Now it is your turn.” Wai-Mae twisted her mouth to one side, thinking. “We will need places to sit for our opera. Try changing this rock into a chair.”

It was as if Wai-Mae had asked Ling to grab the moon and put it under glass. “But how?”

“Start by putting your hands on the rock.”

Ling did as she was told. The rock was cold and dull, like clay awaiting the artist’s hands.

“Think only of the chair, not the rock. See it in your mind. Like a dream. Do you see it?”

“Yes,” Ling said.

“What does it look like?”

“It’s a red-and-gold throne fit for a queen.”

“I cannot wait to sit there,” Wai-Mae said, excited. “Now see the chair and concentrate.”

Ling kept her thoughts on the chair, but the harder she tried, the more it seemed to elude her. Shift, she thought, and Transform and Chair. But the rock remained a rock. Finally, Ling fell back in the grass, exhausted and angry. “I can’t do it.”

“Yes, you can.”

“No, I can’t!” She pushed herself up and stalked off toward the forest.

Behind her, Wai-Mae’s voice took on a steely resolve. “Little Warrior: You can do this. I believe you can.”

“Just because you believe something can change doesn’t mean it will,” Ling snapped, feeling ashamed of her outburst but helpless to stop it.

Wai-Mae came to her side, offering a moth-eaten dandelion. “Here. Try something smaller. Turn this into a cricket.”

Ling glanced from the dandelion to the magnificent flowering dogwood Wai-Mae had managed to create. “This is hopeless,” she grumbled, but she took the dandelion from Wai-Mae anyway.

“Concentrate. You are too tight! You want too much control.”

“I do not!”

“You do too. Let it become something else. Allow the Qi to move through you like a breath. Think of the dandelion changing from the inside.”

“Atoms…” Ling murmured.

Ling took a deep breath and let it out. She did this twice more, and on the third time, she felt a small fluttering at the tips of her fingers that strengthened into a stronger, buzzing current that coursed up her arm and along her neck all the way to the top of her head. Frightened, Ling dropped the dandelion. But as she watched, the dandelion fluctuated wildly between two states, weed and insect, before settling back to dandelion.

“I almost did it,” Ling said, astonished. “It started to change.”

Wai-Mae grinned. “You see? Here, we are like Pangu, creating the heavens and earth, but even better, for we can make it as we wish it to be. My powers have gotten stronger each night I’ve been coming here. Perhaps if you come back tomorrow night and keep coming back as I have, then your power will grow, too.”

“Can you bring physical objects into this place?” Ling asked, excited. “Can you take something out of this dream world? Have you noticed anything interesting when the transformation occurs—a smell or a temperature change? Have you experimented?”

“Isn’t it enough that this world exists? That we can be everything here that we can’t be when we are awake?” Wai-Mae asked.

“No,” Ling said. “I want to know how it works.”

“I just want to be happy,” Wai-Mae said.

Three quick surges of light shot across the sky. Another, smaller spark rippled through the treetops, robbing the leaves there of color. Ling heard that same skin-crawling whine that had frightened her back in the station. The whine devolved into a death-rattle growl, then stopped.

“What was that?” Ling asked.

“Birds, perhaps?” Wai-Mae suggested.

“Didn’t sound like birds. Come on. I want to find out where it’s coming from.”

“Wait! Where are you going, Little Warrior?” Wai-Mae called, scrambling after Ling as she ran through the forest, searching for the source of the light and sound.

At the entrance to the tunnel, Ling stopped. The vast dark crackled with motes of staticky brightness. “It’s coming from there.”

Ling took a step forward. Wai-Mae grabbed her arm. Her eyes were wide. “You mustn’t go in there.”

“Why not?”

“That part of the dream isn’t safe.”

“What do you mean? Not safe how?” Ling asked.

“Can’t you feel it?” Wai-Mae backed away, trembling. “Ghosts.”

“I’ve spoken to plenty of ghosts on my walks. There’s nothing frightening about them.”

“You’re wrong.” Wai-Mae reached the fingers of one hand toward the tunnel, as if drawn to it. “I can feel this one sometimes in there. She… cries.”

“Why?”

“A broken promise. A very bad death,” Wai-Mae whispered, still staring into the dark. With a shudder, she turned away, hugging herself. “I’m frightened of that wicked place. If we do not trouble her, she won’t trouble us.”

“But what if I could help?”

Wai-Mae shook her head vehemently. “We must stay away from there. Promise me, Little Warrior. Promise you won’t go near it. You must warn Henry, too.”

One last bit of light flared like a dying firefly, and then the tunnel was still. Wai-Mae tugged gently on Ling’s sleeve, drawing her away. “Come, Little Warrior. Let the ghosts rest.”

Once they were back on the path through the forest, Wai-Mae’s earlier fear seemed to have gone, and she was her usual garrulous self. But Ling was preoccupied.

“Wai-Mae…” Ling started. “Have you heard any talk on the ship about the sleeping sickness in Chinatown?”

Wai-Mae frowned. “No. Is it serious?”

Ling nodded. “People go to sleep and they can’t wake up. They’re dying from it.” Ling took a deep breath. “My friend George Huang is sick from it. His sister let me take his track medal in the hope that I could find him in the dream world tonight.”

“Do you think that’s wise if he’s sick?”

“I had to try. Unfortunately, I didn’t have any luck. Whatever dreams he’s having are out of my reach. Have you had any walks lately that seemed as if the person dreaming was ill somehow?”

“No. All my dreams have been beautiful. But I will pray for your friend, George Huang.” Wai-Mae gave Ling a shy sideways glance. “And you and I are becoming friends, too, aren’t we?”

Ling wasn’t sure that you could call someone you’d only met inside a dream a true friend. But Wai-Mae was on her way to New York, and for a moment, Ling imagined how fun it would be to parade past Lee Fan and Gracie with Wai-Mae, knowing that they shared an incredible secret all their own, something far beyond Gracie’s and Lee Fan’s limited comprehension.

“Yes,” Ling answered. “I suppose we are.”

Wai-Mae smiled. “I am so happy! What would you like to do now, friend?”

Ling took in the wide, sparkling streets of the village, the misty forest, and the purple mountains just beyond it all. It was all there waiting for her to explore, to claim, as if there were no limits. For just a little while, she wanted to be free.

“Let’s run,” she said.

On the path, Henry smelled gardenia and woodsmoke. He heard Gaspard barking, and that was enough to make him run the rest of the way. Splinters of summer-gold sunshine pierced the soft white flesh of the clouds above the bayou, shining down on Louis, who waved from the front porch, a fishing pole hoisted onto his shoulder, Gaspard at his feet.

“Henri!” He grinned. “Hurry up! Fish are bitin’!”

The old blue rowboat bobbed on the water. Another fishing pole leaned against the side, along with a battered metal pail knotted with a length of thick rope. Henry took a seat on one side, and Louis sat opposite him, paddling them down the river. When they came to a shady spot, he and Henry cast their lines and waited.

“Just like old times,” Henry said.

The rowboat rocked gently on the current as Henry told Louis about meeting Theta and their life at the Bennington and with the Ziegfeld Follies, the songs Henry was writing and trying to publish, the nightclubs and the parties.

“Maybe you got yourself a fancy New York fella now,” Louis said, keeping his eyes on the fishing pole.

There had been other boys, definitely. But none of them was Louis.

“Louis, I want to see you,” Henry said. “Come to New York. You’d love it! I’d take you to the Follies and up to Harlem to the jazz clubs. And Louis, there are places for fellows like us. Places where we can be together, where we can hold hands and dance and kiss without hiding. It isn’t like Louisiana.”

“Always did want to see the big city. It true they got alligators in the sewers?”

“No.” Henry laughed. “But the swells have got alligator bags at the parties.”

“Well, I surely would like to see that.”

Henry’s grin was short-lived. “But where should I send the train ticket? If my letters didn’t reach you at Celeste’s, then there’s no guarantee we can trust somebody to deliver it.”

Louis rubbed his chin, thinking. “Got a cousin—Johnny Babineaux—works over at the post office in Lafayette Square. You can send it care o’ him there.”

“I’ll buy the ticket tomorrow, first thing!” Tears welled up in Henry’s eyes. “I was afraid I’d never see you again.”

“Well, I guess you got to pick something else to be afraid of, then,” Louis said.

More than anything, Henry wanted to hold Louis. Two years was a very long time. He couldn’t stand another minute of separation. He reached for Louis’s hand, and this time, nothing stood between them. Louis’s fingers, which Henry hadn’t felt in far too long, were still wet and cold from the river. Fighting the ache in the back of his throat, Henry ran a finger across Louis’s cheeks and nose, resting it against his full lips.

“Kiss me, cher,” Louis whispered.

Henry leaned forward and kissed him. Louis’s lips were warm and soft. Henry had been telling himself, This is not real. It’s only a dream. But now he stopped telling himself that. It felt real enough. And if dreams could be like this, well, he wasn’t sure he wanted to wake up. Henry kissed Louis again, harder this time, and the sky lit up with a strange sort of lightning. The tops of the trees unraveled slightly; the sun flickered like a lamp with a short.

“What was that?” Henry said, breaking away.

“Don’t know. You’re the dream man,” Louis said. But then Louis was pulling Henry down into the bottom of the rowboat, where they lay in each other’s arms, lulled into contentment by the sun and the breeze and the gentle lapping of the river.

“I won’t ever leave you again, Louis,” Henry said.

When the dream walk neared its end, Henry could barely stand to wrench himself away from Louis. “I’ll be here every night until you’re in New York,” he promised.

Gaspard barked happily and trotted up to Henry, his tail wagging like a flyswatter, and poked his wet nose into Henry’s hand. Henry rubbed at the dog’s floppy ears, enjoying the familiar softness of them. Gaspard’s slobbery tongue slicked Henry’s cheek.

“Everybody wants to kiss you,” Louis said, laughing, and Henry’s throat tightened again. It was just like Louis to dream of his dog.

Gaspard tore away, sniffing ahead of them on the path. The hound tensed near a climbing wall of flowering morning glories, growling and barking at the purplish buds.

“Gaspard! C’mon, boy! Come away from there,” Louis said sharply.

“What’s the matter?” Henry asked.

“I don’t want him in those flowers. Don’t like ’em.”

Henry thought perhaps Louis was joking, but one look at his face said he wasn’t.

“They’re just flowers,” Henry said.

“Gaspard, c’mon, boy!” Louis whistled, and the dog came running. Louis dropped down and nuzzled his face into the dog’s fur. “Good boy.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Henry asked.

Louis replaced his frown with a smile. “Fine as morning. Kiss me once for luck, cher. And twice for love. And three times means we’ll meet again.”

Henry kissed him till he lost count.

In her bed, Ling groaned with pain and exhaustion. Her eyes fluttered open long enough for her to feel the terrible ache deep in her bones. She slid her hand under her pillow, her fingers just touching the cold edge of George’s track medal as she fell into a deep sleep.

Ling stood in Columbus Park. Clouds roiled overhead in anticipation of some storm.

A heartbeat thrummed in her ears, insistent as a drum.

Every post and tree she saw had the same sign: MISSING. MISSING. MISSING.

George Huang pulsed in the gloom, a ghostly heartbeat. His pale skin was fissured like broken pottery glued back together, and red blisters shone on his neck. When he lifted his threadbare hand, his bones showed through like an X-ray. George spread his arms, and the scene shifted back and forth, as if they were cards being pushed and pulled quickly through a stereoscope. One minute, it was the familiar pathways, trees, and pavilion of the park; the next, the park was gone, and in its place were ominous tenements, shacks with rotting shutters, and filthy streets piled with garbage.

The dream changed. Now Ling found herself in City Hall Park. George floated just above a metal grate beside a drinking fountain. He pointed to a row of buildings behind her. Ling turned back to George, and he fell like rain through the bars of the grate. She crawled onto the grate to look for him and it gave way, plunging her down and down into the darkness.

She was inside the train station. The old sign was there—BEACH PNEUMATIC TRANSIT COMPANY—but rot raced along the walls, the decay taking over, devouring the dream’s beauty. Light trembled against the velvety dark of the tunnel like a handful of firecrackers tossed up on Chinese New Year, and in those brief flashes, Ling saw pale blots of form. Eyes. Ravenous mouths. Sharp teeth. There was an ominous insectlike chorus, growing louder.

George’s glow was unsteady now, as if he were a Christmas light winking out. He moved his lips as if trying to speak. It seemed to require a tremendous effort. Each time he tried, more sores appeared on his body. Behind him, the dark crackled and crawled with faulty radiance, and the filthy hole filled with animalistic shrieks and growls and broken ends of words, a great roaring wave of terrifying sound curling up into an obliterating crest.

Ling’s legs shook with terror. She could not move. In a strobe of light, the veiled woman appeared, her dress dripping with blood as she walked. She was coming up behind George, and Ling wanted to warn him about the things in the dark and the woman, but she could only choke on her fear. George Huang stood his ground even as the sores multiplied, spreading across his chest and up his neck, burning his skin down to the bone in spots. He fought the pain.

And just before the crawling, hungry wave reached him, George choked out his words at last: “Ling Chan—Wake. Up.”

Ling woke in her bed. Desperately, she swallowed down air. On the other side of her window, the winter moon was full and bright. The only sound she heard now was her pulse thumping wildly in her head. She was safe. She was fine. It had just been a bad dream.

Only when Ling settled back against the pillow did she realize that she clutched George’s prized track medal.