FIFTY-EIGHT

A FIRE POLE. THE PREPPERS WOULD’VE LOVED IT.

The whole crew watched from the sand, hooting and clapping.

“His face!”

Did he really think Stitch would kill herself? He knew only one thing—he was going down this fire pole.

“Griff! Griff! Griff! Griff!”

He grabbed the cool steel and leapt. A giddy, stomach-dropping feeling and he touched down feather-light. They shook his shoulders, slapped his back, and there was Charity, smiling.

“Was that as fun as it looked?” she asked.

“Better,” Griff said, rubbing his hands together. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt so light.”

“You’ve never been so light,” Charity said. “I was so worried about you.”

She hugged him. Good, long squeeze.

“Is this happening?” Griff asked.

“It appears so,” she said.

“I’m—” he began.

“I know,” she said.

The group walked from the base of the tower to the top of a wooden ladder.

“We get to go down into The Paths,” Thomas said, clapping his hands. He said “The Paths” with capital letters, as if he’d already learned so much. His breath smelled like rubbing alcohol and Kool-Aid.

One by one, they descended into the Paths. A dozen rungs down, the air in the canyons felt different. Cooler. The smell of sawed wood and burnt sage. The effect was incredible. Like parachuting into the heart of a city. Booths and tents clung to tall dirt walls like wild mushrooms cleave to a log. Benches and tents. Caves and squirrelly little dens.

“Ooooh,” Thomas said, pointing. “Sneaky coves.”

“Your lips are blue,” Griff said.

“I drank the Truth Juice,” he said.

Moments later, Thomas was holding hands with a girl with long, braided green hair. Thomas looked at Griff, then down at his handholding situation, as if he was carrying a suitcase of large, unmarked bills.

Already holding hands? How did this happen?

Someone sidled up next to Griff.

“Can I hold your hand?” Moondog asked.

Moondog held Griff’s hand. Strange. He wore a blue bracelet, like Malachi’s black one. Moondog looked to be about their age, but small. All of him seemed like it could fold up and fit in a tiny suitcase. Griff took a deep breath. Charity was arm in arm with the tall girl with braids, Alea.

“Look,” Moondog said.

A brilliant peach made of blown glass—one bite missing. It rested precariously on a wooden crate. Art, everywhere. Slabs of driftwood with mosaicked spawning salmon. Handmade water spigots. Crooked benches looked worn and knotted in the right places, slanting and tucking into each space just so. To Griff’s left, a path carved wide switchbacks back up to the plateau. A ramp for cars?

Who’d built this place?

Ahead, wild decorations hung across the steep canyon walls, a makeshift roof of ribbons, flags—or clothing. Underwear clipped and knotted to look like birds, shirt cuffs holding hands, skirts and dresses pinned as if twirling. As they walked, disembodied clothing slowly consumed the sky. A carnival of potential identities.

Hats heaped on crooked tables. Clothes spilled from whisky barrels. Wooden boxes of jewelry. A wire racks of masks. Smiling tigers and expressionless mimes. Hook-nosed vultures. The group broke apart, tried on new faces.

Ahead, the path dead-ended in a wall of sky-high purple curtains.

“Time to change,” Stitch said. She whipped off her shirt. Bra! Griff spun around. What was happening? Now they were pilling things into his arms—

Oh, here—you’d look smashing, this is just your color—

Somehow, almost immediately, Thomas was wearing a pink cowboy hat and mirrored sunglasses. Sleeveless white shirt, leather chaps.

“Ride ’em, cowboy!”

Thomas whooped and rode an invisible horse, swatted it with his hand. People loved him. Charity went next, vanishing through a fold in the elevated curtains that must’ve been the changing room. Did Griff imagine it—all of them glancing in that direction, the trailing off of side conversations as suspense mounted? Were they all waiting to see her, too?

Moments later, she exited to whistles, wild applause.

Like when he’d first seen her on stage—dazzling. Brand-new again. The dress was blue and white and lacy like she’d slipped through a hole in the sky and come out wearing a piece of it. He wanted to tell her how good she looked. Wanted to hold her—

“That’s my girl,” Stitch said. Then she grabbed Griff by the wrist. “Your turn, handsome. Watch your step!”

Behind the curtains, a small wooden stage. Griff stepped up, grabbed for an opening. He followed the folds until he was nestled into the fabric. Straight ahead, a full-length mirror. Leo stared back at him.

“I know you found it first,” Griff said. “What do you want? Should I leave?”

Leo shook his head. He looked worried.

“What?” Griff asked.

A pained, familiar expression. The last look Leo had ever given him. Again, Griff saw the wave pounce. Saw the emptied ledge and churning water and tasted the spray and could not breathe. He shoved through the curtains, couldn’t escape, dropped his clothing, tripped down the wooden stage onto the grit and—hey, you okay—they were pulling him up but something else was happening.

A set of headlights, gliding toward them down the Paths.

Light washed their faces. Doors opened.

“All right, boys,” said the familiar voice. “Get in the car.”