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multifaceted crystals that you hang in the window to make rainbows. When I walk through, it feels like I’m traveling at the speed of light, like I just stepped onto a moving sidewalk that goes a thousand miles per hour. But I’m not jolted, not pulled, just moved . I don’t see Thatcher—I don’t see anything, really; I just sense pure motion.
    And then I’m on the other side, and it’s so familiar that I want to cry.
    Home , I think.

Four
    IT ISN’T MY HOME, but it’s definitely Earth. The wind hits my face first, and I smell the familiar salty air as an involuntary smile crosses my lips.
    The Charleston Harbor . It’s midday, and the sun is high in the sky. I tilt my head back to see the sky and inhale deeply. “Love the way it smells—”
    â€œYou’re not really smelling it. Scent is one of the strongest memory enhancers. Just like the smell of pecan pie can bring memories of Thanksgiving with family, so seeing something can cause you to remember a fragrance.”
    I glare at him, wanting to prove that I’m not like him, that I’m different, that I’m not really dead. “I am smelling it. I’m feeling the wind—”
    I stop. Tall palmettos blow in the breeze, but my hair isn’t whipping around my face. God, he’s right. I’m only imagining these sensations, because past experience has taught me to expect them. “So you can’t tell that I smell like wild strawberries?”
    Before he blinks, I see longing reflected in his eyes. He slowly shakes his head.
    â€œDon’t you miss all the different aromas? Sunscreen, hot dogs, decaying fish?”
    A corner of his mouth quirks up. “The rotting sea life, not so much. The other . . . I don’t think about it. We’re separate from Earth. Like being in a bubble. You have to realize that your outer shell is an illusion, a security blanket so everything isn’t stripped away, so you have something familiar to anchor you. Don’t focus on what’s missing. Concentrate on what you can see, observe.”
    That’s so hard. It’s like all of a sudden, I can only think about the sensations that are absent: the grit of sand caught in a whirlwind blowing across my calves, the tangy aroma of barbecue, the heat of the sun beating down. With a great deal of effort, I put it all aside and focus on what I can see.
    Tourists pass by with ice cream cones, women wear big straw hats to protect their skin, and people hold hands, laughing. The scene before me is vivid and sharp—like we’re watching a high-definition show from inside the TV.
    I notice a little boy standing off to the side of a mother, father, and baby girl who sit together on a wooden bench with a lunch of pulled pork sandwiches and coleslaw. The boy attracts my gaze the most—he has a glow to him, almost like there’s a subtle spotlight over his head.
    Just down from the family, an older woman with tightly permed grandma hair sits next to an old man. She has the same glow as the little boy, and she stares at the man lovingly as he gazes over the water in front of them and into the distance. I drink in the scene, noting how she is so much more vibrant than he is, but he doesn’t even seem to know that she’s there.
    I follow the old man’s eyes out over the water, to a sailboat off the harbor with a family of four in the cockpit. As they take down the mainsail, I catch a glimpse of a girl my age—glowing—on the bow. “She’s going to fall in,” I say. “You can’t stand out there when—”
    I stop and catch my breath. Or I experience the sensation of catching my breath.
    â€œElla Hartley,” I whisper.
    â€œYes,” says Thatcher. “You remember her, too?”
    â€œI need to sit down,” I say to him as I start to realize what he’s showing me and another wave of despair washes over me. I am like Ella