Chapter 36

Please, Come Back to Me

Owen

Despite his protests, Owen found himself back in the interrogation room with Guerard and Sacco. "Owen, you were picked up because you are in violation of your probationary agreement. You were supposed to meet with a parole officer weekly. Our records indicate that you haven't made one visit."

"What happened to your eyebrows?" Owen asked.

The officer ignored him. They displayed a photograph of a bloody swimming pool, body parts strewn on the diving board and walkways. "Owen Wheeler, what was your role in the deaths at Los Alamos?" Guerard asked him.

Owen panicked remembering his helplessness. "I couldn't breathe," he said. "They held me underwater. I couldn't see a thing."

"What about last night," Sacco asked. "What were you doing?"

"Fighting for my life," Owen said. "I was fighting for everything."

"Did you win?"

"I don't know," he cried. "I can't believe you stopped me." In frustration, Owen pushed up against the metal interrogation table. It didn't budge. Somebody had bolted it to the floor. "I was trying to find out." Owen placed his arms on the table and rested his head. He had been awake all night – two nights. "I am so tired. I'm tired of running."

After a little more interrogation without replies from Owen, someone knocked at the door and Sacco answered it. He received a terse message and a manila folder. After closing the door, he turned back to the room. He sat down at the table and addressed Owen sincerely. "We've got to decide what to do with you. You know ... I couldn't fuckin' believe it when I saw you on the roof of that mill. Personally, I think you're a hero."

"You saw me?"

"Yeah, too bad we can't tell anybody." He shook his head out of wonder. "I don't even know how you survived. Now, you need to decide on your future." He opened the new folder and scanned the materials. "There are two paths open to you – jail or a drug treatment program. Your choice."

"I'm tired of making bad choices," Owen said.

"Well make a good one. The fire is out. We've declared the scene part of our case ... which is not even a stretch. You're welcome to tag along if you want." He returned Owen's belongings. "What's with the dress?"

Owen didn't answer that question, but agreed to bear witness to the carnage. He waited alone in the interrogation room for the policemen to make a few phone calls and reports.

A little while later, they were stomping through the skeletal structure of the burned out mill. A crowd of curious onlookers lined the street. Firemen were walking around, checking the spaces for any flareups. Investigators picked out pieces of broken glass for evidence. One of them said to Sacco, "No civilians. This area isn't safe for field trips. You should have left your kid at home."

"He's helping us in our investigation," Sacco replied.

Owen craned his neck to see the other side of the river. He tried to glance under the bridge, but the shadows made it impossible to see. He wanted this to be over … one way or another.

Near the burned mattress, a paramedic zipped up a body bag. "Can we take a look?" Guerard asked.

The paramedic opened the bag and Owen got a good look and bore witness to the face of evil. His body was burnt to the waist, but his head was unblemished. Two day's worth of sleepless adrenaline boiled over. He pulled back with his leg and kicked him with the force of years of frustration. With a broken spine, the head moved a lot more than expected. The paramedics watched horrified at the desecration. Sacco grabbed him by the shoulders and held him back from kicking the corpse a second time.

"Can you identify him, Owen?" Guerard asked.

It was the vision Owen captured so many times from Abby's nightmares. The endless days he spent calming her mind. "Abbè Jean-Louis Le Loutre," Owen said, "he's a priest."

"You know what's funny," Sacco said, "I guess this is a small town, after all. I recognize him, too. He looks a lot like the person we fished out of Lake Pueblo, before five years of submersion. The spittin' image of Ray Mosi – Jane's father."

"What the hell does that mean?" Guerard asked.

Sacco released his grip on Owen's shoulder. "Go ahead, kick him a few more times," Sacco said. Owen was more than happy to oblige. He pounded his foot home. Kicking didn't fix anything, but it helped release his anger. After a few more kicks, he leaned his hands on his knees panting from the effort.

"It means he was one messed up son of a bitch. We did all right," Sacco said. "Any other bodies around here, Owen?"

"The furnace." He pointed to the black metal door leading to the oven.

While they were searching, Owen glanced inside the crucibles. He found a half-melted Rubik's Cube and lithograph picture inside. The cube was frozen in place by the heat. "Do you mind if I keep these?" he asked. The fire investigators wanted all evidence to remain on the site, but Guerard gave a shrug of consent.

Three bodies were in the furnace. At least there wasn't more … at least they didn't find me down there. Owen could barely stomach watching as they pulled one out after the other. First the old man in the alley; then Charlie Langston, then Moira. He knew their faces as well as any other. "Can I go now?" he asked.

"Yeah, you can go." Sacco escorted him out the alley of the mill. "Someone is out here waiting for you," he said.

His heart raced with the possibilities. Did they find Abby? Is she okay? Then he had a disturbing thought. I hope it's not Jane.

Jane was there, but she hardly noticed Owen as she broke through the police barrier and ran into the mill screaming for her father. For Owen, it was Gabriella and Aileen waiting outside the mill entrance. They had an infant in a stroller and Caleb by their side. "Are you ready, Owen?" Gabriella asked him, more excited than she should be to see him.

"Ready for what?"

"I found a treatment center for you. Denver was full, but when I learned you were from New Mexico, I made a few calls. There's an opening at an addiction center in Santa Fe with your name on it," Gabriella said. "You have a chance to get better. Isn't this exciting?" She held out a ticket in front of her. "Your train leaves in about an hour. We need to get moving."

Oh, yes we do, Owen thought. She was a lot more enamored of the prospect than Owen was. He scanned the crowd and found an opening. He bolted for the hole, away from the crowd toward the Fourth Street Bridge.

"Shit," he heard Sacco exclaim behind him followed by the smack of rubber police soles against the concrete.

Owen made it halfway across the span before a solid grip took hold of his shoulder and prevented him from moving one step further. Owen struggled to extract himself from the solid hands. "I'm almost there. I have to help her!"

Out of breath, Sacco wheezed from the sudden effort. "I'm not as fast as I used to be. Perhaps you didn't understand the terms of our deal. Jail or rehabilitation. There is no third choice."

"Please! I'm so close."

Owen managed to wiggle himself out of the grip until the police officer held his shirt by only a couple of fingers. He almost tore the shirt hauling Owen back in. He placed both arms around Owen's chest and lifted him over his shoulders. "All that working out pays off at a time like this."

Owen looked back across the span and saw the distance growing. The bridge blocked his view, he couldn't see her. He couldn't tell if she was okay.

Sacco carried him all the way back across the bridge to the crowd outside the mill. "We'll all go together, Sacco said to his wife and Gabriella. He patted Owen on the rear. "I'll handle the cargo."

"It's okay," Gabriella said in consolation to Owen. "Sometimes you need a little push from others. It's okay to admit weakness."

Owen handed the dress to Gabriella, "I'm begging you, check under the bridge on the far side. You'll find a little girl wrapped in just a blanket. Just leave her there. Don't move her … don't touch her. When she wakes up – if she wakes up – give her this dress and let her know where I'm headed."

"Okay, I'll meet you guys on the platform." She handed Aileen the ticket and jogged across the bridge.

Owen was empty. A dress – it was all he could offer for Abby after six years. Tony set him back down on the ground making sure to block possible paths of exit. Caleb grabbed his hand, "Come on. It's time to go home. That's a good thing, right?"

"I guess so," Owen said, but he didn't feel like it was such a good thing. He followed them to the train station – a blank slate. A vagrant sat on the steps, begging for handouts. He donated a dollar, the remainder of his money. Owen had begged from the same spot one day in the snow and someone gave him only a quarter.

On the train platform, wedged between Tony and Aileen, they waited for the express to Santa Fe. In the conversation which flew across his body, Owen discovered their plans to adopt the two children. The girl didn't even have a name – Isabel Clark thought that naming her would condemn her to an early death. Perhaps she was right.

"Tony insisted on no more strays," Aileen said, "but then I reminded him of the blessings to those who take care of widows and orphans. It was Father Erasmus's suggestion," she said in a way that ended the discussion.

They were worried about Javier. Owen didn't have the courage to tell them the truth.

Before long, Owen's heart stammered when he saw Gabriella ascend to the platform. He took in a deep breath and held it. She walked casually over to the group, still carrying the dress. "The campfire was smoldering, but nobody was there," she said handing the dress back to Owen.

What happened to her? Could she have finally walked out into the sun? "Keep it," he muttered, "for someone else. Someone who needs it more than me." She told me once, she owed her uncle everything. She wanted to walk out into the sun, but something always stopped her. The memory of Jean-Louis may have been all that kept her alive … and I killed him.

"You will find somebody at the other end be there to meet you when you arrive," Aileen said. "Good luck."

He boarded the train, empty and alone. The train car was nearly deserted save for a family and a couple of well-dressed business men. Owen chose a seat far away from the rest of them. He was hollow on the ride back. Without a trunk at his feet, this train car was his prison. His ticket was punched, he didn't even remember by whom.

Leaving the city, they crossed over the bridge – the very bridge under which Abby hid from the sun on their first day in Pueblo. It felt so final, like he was abandoning her.

He pondered Abby's fate on the long, desolate ride to Santa Fe. The weight of uncertainty overwhelmed him more than the possibility she was gone forever. He wanted some sort of closure so that he could move forward. Moira's mother painfully flashed her picture around B Street. She received her answer from the bottom of a furnace today. Her pain of uncertainty exchanged for Owen's. This is my penance.

The train passed by every desolate loading station along the way. Each time they approached one, Owen considered it another missed opportunity to get off and hitchhike back to Pueblo. But the express train plowed through without providing that opportunity. Gabriella planned his exodus too well.

He might remain on the train past his stop, but the conductor helped him off. Sunny Santa Fe was at least ten degrees warmer then Pueblo. Not that it mattered a whit. The warmth didn't penetrate his skin.

Exiting the train, Owen found someone waiting for him. His father reached out to shake his hand. Owen refused the greeting. "What are you doing here? Where's mom?" Six years wasn't long enough.

"She couldn't make it," he said.

They walked to his father's truck in silence. On the road to the treatment center, his father tried to engage him in some conversation. "I know I've made mistakes," he said. "I'm no better than anybody else that way."

Better than some, worse than others. "Is that why Mom isn't here? Did you hit her?"

"You get right to the point, don't you?" Uncertain how to answer, his father played around with the radio and checked his mirrors. "Your mother and I both made a lot of mistakes. After three battered girlfriends and a court order, I got some help. I break a few walls every now and again, but I haven't hit anybody for three years, two months and fourteen days." His father rubbed his gray mustache with his hands. He had grown old while Owen was gone. "I don't expect you to forgive me, but I'll try to earn it."

Owen didn't think that forgiveness would come that easy. He was no Erasmus.

They drove up to the treatment center where his father unloaded Owen and parked the car. Inside the lobby, Owen approached the front desk. Like a hotel clerk, the admissions nurse said, "Mr. Wheeler, we've been expecting you." She handed him a stack of papers to complete.

Owen sat down in the lobby and concentrated on his paperwork. How many times must I sign that it is okay for them to treat me? He left the question of HIV/AIDS blank on the form.

Off to the side of the reception area was a casual lounge for visitors … an upgraded version of the Wayside Hope homeless shelter. From the area, he was startled to hear his name called in a whisper. "Owen?"

He glanced up at a long blond hair woman in a wheel chair, wearing a cream colored, Terrycloth robe. "Mom?" he stammered. He ran to her and threw his arms around. The first person he was glad to see. Her shaking hands caressed his face in wonder.

Having checked in a week earlier, his mother was a patient there, too. "I've been sober for two whole weeks," she said, "it's not very long. It sounds pathetic just talking about it." She wiped her nose with a hanky. Just hearing about Owen, after six years, gave her the push to try.

"No, it sounds wonderful." Owen said. His eyes welled up in tears. "Tomorrow it will be fifteen days. That's like one more."

"You were always good at math," she said. Investigators had been asking about him. The rumor spread that he was still alive. That was her motivation. If she could do it, so could he. Maybe he could find the strength to complete his recovery. It was a start.

Owen checked in to a small private room for the first part of his treatment. He placed the warped Rubik's cube and picture of Abby's father on the nightstand. He was unpacked.

The nurse had him change his clothes and she connected the IV. "The first treatment," she said, "is an aggressive chemical to try to flush you of the dependency. It is very painful. We'll keep you sedated during the treatment and wean you from the drugs slowly." She kept herself busy while she talked. "I'm not going to lie to you, Owen. The success rate is not very high … perhaps thirty percent. Worse, your body may not have the strength to handle the trauma of treatment. Some people will never let go of the dependency … you may even die."

She opened up the drip to the sedative and methadone. "Success or failure is mostly up to the patient. You have to want it to work." Owen drifted quickly off to sleep.

His body arched in intense pain. He floated in a turbulent, bloody river along with a multitude of others. His feet were tethered to the bottom and his face barely broached the surface. He forced his head back in a tilt clearing his mouth for breathing. The bloody river boiled, frying Owen's skin.

On the edge of the riverbank, towering apple trees swayed in the wind. Instead of fruit, thousands of people dangled from the branches, hung by the neck from rope. Harpies with the face of a girl and the wings of a bat gnawed at their flesh. One harpy tore into the hole behind Charlie Langston's skull, savoring the meat. Another victim of the feast, a young police officer, lost an eye and his nose.

When Charlie twirled to overlook the river, his expression brightened. "Hey, everybody look. It's Owen."

A chorus of "hi's" and "pleased to meet you's" arose in a murmuring clatter from the other occupants of the tree. Owen responded in kind when his mouth broached the surface.

"I knew you'd make it," Charlie responded with a great big grin on his face. "Welcome to hell!"

Before long, the boredom of silence overcame him and Owen settled into eternity. He concentrated on maintaining his rhythm of breathing along with the flowing water. An interesting pattern broke the silence. The boiling bubbles of the river popped and the swishing of the tree branches repeated the same arrangement over and over. The sounds amused his puzzle solving mind – sway, sway, sway … pop, sway, sway … pop … sway, pop. What does it mean? That's my name … who is talking to me in Morse code?

With this realization, he heard the sounds of another word offending the silence: P,L,E,A,S,E. "Owen, please" … what does it mean? Before he had the chance to hear more of the message, he felt a wrenching, heart-stopping pain in his chest. The agony deepened until finally he broke free of his tether and was sucked underwater.

Dragged underwater for days, Owen found that he lost the desire or need to breathe. He enjoyed the underwater life – fish and weeds that thrived on the bloody water. Catfish tentacles tickled his arms, but refused to bite. He almost enjoyed the sensation until the water spit him out onto a solid white desert. He learned to breathe again while strolling down a hardened path.

Tens of thousands of people knelt on the desert floor and tried to consume the white powder. Five young men fought over the best spots in the desert. Owen remembered these men from the parking garage. He wondered why they were so captivated by the white powder. He was tempted by their offer of a sample for a small fee. But then he decided he wasn't hungry after all. "No thanks," Owen said.

A black dove flew around the sky. He called to Owen, "Why don't you run? You'll get there faster."

"I'm not going anywhere," Owen answered. "And I'm tired of running."

A lightning storm raged in the sky without any rain. Owen tried to count the seconds between burst of lightning and peals of thunder, but they didn't fall into the expected pattern. Thunder, lightning, thunder, lightning … thunder, thunder, thunder … thunder, thunder … lightning. Morse code in the wilderness ... C,O,M,E,B,A,C,K.

For forty days and forty nights Owen wandered through the desert. Rainless thunder and lightning raged the entire time. When he thought he might walk forever Owen came to a stone gate guarded by a Minotaur. On the other side was an enormous field of wheat. The Minotaur blocked his passage with a large battleaxe. At least until he was distracted by a white dove soaring above the field with hyssop stalks laced to his tail. The Minotaur smiled, which must mean that Owen was allowed through. He didn't wait to ask permission.

Owen strolled through the fields where hundreds of thousands of people with lumbering sickles tried to harvest the grain. He recognized them as people who marched past a begging boy, ignoring his pleas of hunger. Each stalk of grain they harvested flew into the air, but the fruit was consumed by locusts before it struck the ground. The people's hunger remained unsatisfied.

Not tempted by the grain, Owen walked by the frustrated farmers who ignored his passing in death, as they had in life. Grasshopper chirps combined with fluttering wings to create an odd pattern in the wind. Flutter … flutter, flutter, flutter … flutter, flutter … chirp. T,O,M,E. Owen had to wonder if each of these people received a message just like his, but they didn't know how to listen.

At the end of the field, he came across millions trying to get out. All sorts of people with all sorts of animals. Some were dressed in colonial garb, some in ancient cloaks, and others in denim. With them were pack horses, donkeys, and dromedaries weighed down with their failures. They parted like the seas and allowed Owen to pass by. On the other side of the crowd was another gateway without any guard. "Why aren't any of you passing through?" Owen asked.

"Are you kidding?" One of them answered. "It's too tiny. We can't fit."

Owen strolled to the looping, silvery gate and looked through. On the other side a flowers filled his view. He looked to his left and right and saw dozens of looping gates to each side. Yet the millions of people stood and waited for approval to pass. He poked his head through the nearest loop. It was huge. He couldn't understand their hesitation.

He stepped through, one foot at a time, and found himself in a magnificent field of wildflowers surrounded by a mighty forest. Until this eruption of color, he didn't realize the world on the other side of the eye was all one color. The river, the desert and the wheat fields were all monochromatic shades of ash. But here, the field before the forest was congested with bright pinks, brilliant yellows and grand purples. The leaves in the forest were the deepest green he had ever seen. The aromas assaulted his noses with a floral frenzy. He never wanted to leave.

Suddenly he was overcome by an abundance of Selkie. She threw her arms around him and hugged tight. "Owen, I'm so glad you made it," she said. He cherished the feel of her embrace he held onto the imperishable kindness for hours. "Oberon is dying to meet you. … Well, not really dying, of course, it's just a figure of speech."

Selkie grabbed him by the arm and towed him through the fields toward the river. "Look at this place, isn't it magical? Do you see the trees? It seems like so long ago, but they were once sprouts in a burned out forest. I watered them myself. Oberon's fortress is at the top of the highest branches."

"I'm sorry I wasn't there for you," Owen said sadly.

"Why would you be sorry? Look at where I am. The faerie land has been restored to beauty. I can't imagine anywhere else I would rather be. And now you're here with me, too." She held her arm in the shape of a serpent. The imaginary head caressed Owen's arm without biting. "Look," she said. "The stain is gone." She laughed in her high pitch staccato laughter. He had missed her uncomplicated happiness, her simple joy. It was contagious.

They reclined on a blanket next to the river and watched the water drift by. Time stood still. It was peaceful. In a moment of silliness, Selkie rolled her pant legs up her knees and waded into the water; Owen followed her lead. Rainbow trout jumped out of the water, catching flies. "Are you hungry?" Selkie asked. "I have fresh wildflower stew ready."

They returned to the blanket with bowls of stew ready. The mixture of wildflower paste looked as delicious as it was colorful, but Owen wasn't hungry in the least. "When do you think Oberon will want to meet with me?" He was worried about the judgment.

"Tomorrow, maybe," Selkie answered.

"As long as I've been here, I haven't seen the sun move," Owen said. "How long before it's tomorrow?"

"Don't you love it? The sun never sets," she said. "It's warm and sunny, and tomorrow never comes."

Owen was confused. In that case when will Oberon want to see him? It made about as much sense as everything else in Selkie's world. One question, one uncertainty, in which he needed to find an answer. "Selkie," Owen asked, "why did you thank me?"

"I don't understand," she said. "I thanked you for everything."

"But I did nothing for you."

"Don't be so modest. You were my friend."

"I wasn't a very good friend."

"I know I was a difficult person to get along with," Selkie said. "Everybody else treated me like I was simple or foolish. Not you. You inspired me."

She stood up and took Owen by the hand. They left the comfort of the fields next to the river along the path into the faerie forest. "I'm not explaining this very well," she continued. "Before you came the faerie kingdom was a desert wasteland and burned out husks. I thought it was beautiful, but I didn't even know what beauty was. Now look at it. You freed me from the prison of my life. You gave me the courage to face my fears. And most meaningful, to me at least, you were my friend. Without judgment. I never had that before."

"But I wasn't there for you when you needed me. You died because I wasn't there to help you."

"The angel of death needed an offering. You knew that as well as I. You were always there for me … you just couldn't always find me." Then with a big smile, she added, "You found me now. Are you staying?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"It's up to Oberon. We're going to see him now."

The forest canopy stretched to the sky and beyond. They stepped on a wooden platform. With a tug, Selkie pulled on a vine and the elevator began to move upward. "How long is this ride going to take?"

"No more than a day," Selkie answered. It seemed like a standard answer her since eternity was no more than a day.

"Don't you miss the stars?"

"Of course not," she said. "Look at the sky."

Owen leaned out of the elevator to view the sky. The sun shared the rosy skyscape complete with the moon and constellations. "It doesn't seem complete." He found Perseus and Cassiopeia, but there was no Cetus the serpent. Andromeda was missing, too.

Selkie hugged him around the waist and pulled him tight. Reflexively, he placed his arms around her shoulders. Soft and comforting. He could get used to this. He kissed the top of her head.

At the top of the elevator Owen greeted found Lazarus sitting on the edge of the wood with his feet dangling over. He stared through a pair of binoculars over the horizon. Without stirring from his search, he said, "Hi Owen. I saw you coming from a mile away."

"What are you searching for?" Owen asked him.

"I haven't seen my angel, yet," he said. "It's all right. She'll be here soon. You can go inside. Oberon is expecting you."

Inside, Owen found older gray haired, poorly dressed man at the center of a raised pinewood table. On the table sat a massive tome and large set of scales. Owen stood below the table in wonder. "Blaise?" he said.

"Yeah, yeah. Enough of that." He pointed to the book. "This is yours," he said. Owen winced at the shameful contents contained within. Blaise place the book on one end of the scale where it slammed against the stop – overburdening the mechanics of the scale. Owen wasn't sure what that meant, but he didn't think it was promising.

Then Blaise lifted up a single grain of rice and placed it on the opposite end of the balance. The scale slowly tilted in the other direction until the pan with the grain of rice rested below the pan with the book. "Isn't that amazing?" Blaise said. "I don't think I expected that. I guess you get to stay after all. Dismissed!"

Owen strolled out of the fortress and stood next to Lazarus by the railing. He stared in wonder at the panoramic vista. They were miles above the countryside. The canopy of trees, fields and rivers stretched out for miles. There wasn't a city in the field of view … not anywhere on the vast horizon. And it was so blessedly warm. In the quiet above the treetops a tender breeze whispered his name. "Owen, please … please come back to me."

Selkie walked up next to him and placed her arm on his shoulder. "Isn't that wonderful?" Selkie asked. "You get to stay in a land without any want or need."

It was beautiful. The possibility of eternal contentment – something Owen longed for. "Do I have to stay?" Owen asked.

"No," Selkie rubbed his shoulder. "You can choose to leave. But why would you?"

"Contentment sounds wonderful," he lied. It wasn't true contentment for him. She was out there somewhere, and he was infected with uncertainty. "I don't think I'm ready yet. I want to experience the urgency of growing old in a place where one year is one year. I want to experience life at nineteen and twenty and fifty." He left the rest of his wish unspoken. He wanted to grow old with Abby.

"You may never find her," Selkie said. "At some point, you have to let go and surrender your doubts. You can return, when you are ready."

With that declaration, Selkie gave him a kiss on his cheek and pushed Owen off the towering tree platform. The wind whistled through his hair as he tumbled toward the river. Didn't she promise never to push me?

With a splash he struck the river and descended deeper and deeper. Into the mouth of the abyss. Numb from the chilled waters, he could barely feel a thing. He waved his arms in the water trying to learn to swim. He looked down and saw his tiny, wrinkly toes. He played with them with his little fingers.

Finally, as his lungs were about to burst, an angel grabbed him by the arms and hauled him into a hospital bed. His tongue was smothered with a salty seaweed paste. He spit it out. "Ugh," he said, "what's that?"

"Ramen noodles. I thought you liked them."

Through the sweat of fever, Owen's eyes beheld a strange, out of focus, miracle. His arms weren't quite working right. Clumsily, he knocked the spoon away. It clattered and clanked on the floor, but he didn't care. "Is it really you?" He placed his hands on her scalp and rubbed the soft bristles of her short hair.

Owen pulled her close and lost sight of his emotions. Numb, like the bed wasn't even beneath him, he was floating. He couldn't breathe. Am I still underwater? He didn't care. The bowl of noodles followed the spoon to the floor. Kissing her head, he pulled tighter. He inhaled the fresh, sweet cinnamon smell. He couldn't hold her close enough.

"Why are you crying?" Abby asked him, trying to pull away from his vice-like grip.

The redness was gone from her skin. She had no blisters or sores. He traced the hair above her eyes and the water on her cheeks. "You're crying, too."

"I was fine until you woke up."

He squeezed her tight, worried she was just part of another dream. Her fuzz tickled his nose. Fingering the straps on her dress, he noticed that it was the beige one he picked out because it seemed a colonial style. Something she would like – Selkie's. Finally he relaxed his hold on her and she wiped the Ramen spittle off his mouth with a napkin. But he kept touching her, worried she would disappear into the mist.

Where am I? He glanced around. It wasn't the mill or the shelter. The room was like a hospital room … the treatment center. "How did you find me?" he asked.

"I'll always know how to find you. You can never escape."

"But how did you get here?" Owen asked. "I was so worried about you alone beneath that bridge. I can't believe I left you there."

"Before dawn, some guy found me and carried me to the shelter. He was nice. A few nights later Gabriella drove me all the way here." Abby gave a small chuckle. "She thinks I'm your sister."

"You haven't been out in the daylight?" She shook her head. So we don't know her condition.

"I wanted to see you first."

A nurse entered the room to check his chart. "Is that girl here again? She's just like a cat … every time I chase her away, she finds a way back in. You're not supposed to have visitors in this wing."

Owen held on tight. "You're not taking her."

"Don't worry about it. I tried to get her to leave for the first few nights. I abandoned the effort after a few days. Your heartbeat dropped dangerously low a couple of times; we almost lost you. Since she's been here you've doing much better."

"Nurse Ryan let me feed you solid food," Abby said. "You had an IV for nutrients, but solid food helps you regain your strength."

"She's right," the nurse said. "Most patients lose weight during the treatments – an IV is just not enough."

"Just like on the roof," Owen wondered. "That's how you kept me alive."

"She's been feeding you for hours every day," Nurse Ryan said. "There is no substitute for that kind of care." Nurse Ryan disconnected his IV, but left the tubes dangling from his elbow. "The worst part of the treatment is over. If you want, you can eat in the cafeteria now. The drugs should be gone from your system. You won't need the methadone cocktail anymore."

"God, you are a beautiful sight," Owen said. Owen clutched her tight once again. She felt warm and solid. He had trouble staring at her and holding her at the same time. It was frustrating. But he held on, for fear of ever letting her go again. Nurse Ryan went about her business dutifully and professionally, but Owen realized how awkward she was with their intimacy. "Abby what are we doing?" Owen asked. "You're just a twelve-year-old kid, and I have AIDS. In this world, they frown on that sort of relationship."

"You don't have HIV or AIDS," Nurse Ryan said. "We test every patient. Just to be safe. You're clean."

"How is that even possible?" Owen asked.

Nurse Ryan shrugged, "Fate. Who knows why some people develop the disease and others don't? You're one of the lucky ones." She returned his medical chart to the hook. "Your numbers are looking good. I should be able to move you into the other wing in a few days. I'll check on you in a little while."

After she left, Abby said, "I'm not twelve any more, either."

"Another miracle," he chuckled. "How'd that happen?"

"I'm thirteen now. I decided March 21st is my new birthday. The day I woke up from a long sleep. Enjoy it while you can, because in a year I'll be fourteen," she declared with a grin. "I'm going to learn the urgency of growing old."

"I guess you expect some sort of present." He glanced at the warped Rubik's cube and lithograph of Abby's father and laughed. "Take it. Everything I own is already yours."

They laid there just like that for what must have been hours. Sometimes talking, sometimes quiet. Owen shared his strange dreams of heaven and hell. "They were just dreams," he said. He had difficulty talking about Selkie. "Selkie wasn't a dream. She wanted you to be her friend."

Finally, when the topics were exhausted, they grew stiff from the reclined position. She pulled herself out of Owen's arms and jumped out of the hospital bed. "Let's go for a walk. You need the exercise."

Owen struggled to free himself out of the bed. "I wonder what I'm going to wear today." He looked through the closet for some spare clothes, the only clothes he had.

Still numb and stiff, his fingers had trouble with the buttons and zipper. He found the photograph of Isabel Clark in his pocket. When dressed he didn't linger before giving Abby another long embrace. He didn't know what was wrong – he had never been so clingy before. She welcomed his touch – except for the head. "Quit touching my hair," she complained. But she was smiling.

"It feels so weird," Owen said. "I can't believe it's growing back. That's a good sign right?"

Abby shrugged with a hopeful smile, "I don't know ... I don't know anything about this."

"All right, let's go." He put his hand in hers and strolled beyond his bedroom door into the treatment center hallway. "Do you know a good place to walk?"

They walked around the circular hallway path of the treatment center. They stayed in the shadows whenever the bright sunlight poked through the high windows. After a few cycles, Abby led him on a different path - down the hall and around the corner. Just beyond the door, Owen saw the sunlit courtyard. "You haven't been out in the sun?"

Abby shook her head. "Not for almost two hundred and forty years. I wanted to see you first. One more time." With a look of nervous anxiety, she worried for Owen. "You should move away a little, just in case."

Owen didn't want this moment to end. With one step he could find himself alone again. His fears were so powerful, so overwhelming, that he could barely stand the thought of moving forward. He had lived most of the last six years in darkness. It wasn't so terrible. "We don't have to go outside. We can wait until nightfall. I don't want today to end."

"I don't either," Abby said, "but I want tomorrow to begin."

He placed his hand underneath Abby's chin, lifted it and kissed her lips. The longing was so genuine, so unsatisfied that he didn't care if anyone saw them. He felt the warmth of her lips with a passion he knew only from his dreams. This desire was missing from the beautiful artistry of the faerie land. He could live without contentment, but he didn't want to live without Abby. With his eyes closed, he released the kiss and steeled his nerves. This was a battle for just them.

He hadn't been sure if the fire burned away their linkage. It was an amazing thing this connection they shared. So close to her, he knew her thoughts and dreams. Now he reached out one more time. The bond was still there, in his mind, just like always. And she was terrified. Owen took several deep, calming breaths, and he knew that it was helping her face her fears and worry. He felt her heart rate drop as her worries coalesced into wonder.

Owen placed his arm around Abby's shoulder and pulled her tight against him. "No matter what, I'm not letting go," he said. He pushed open the door. A sharp shadow crossed the path in front of them showing the demarcation between darkness and light. He couldn't breathe. They took their next step through the door to tomorrow and into the warmth of the sun – together.