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make you a sandwich or some tea if you like. We still have birthday cake.”
    “I should probably call it a night. Can you wake me at six?”
    “Sure thing.”
    “Thanks again…for everything.” She kisses his cheek and walks toward the stairs.
    “Any time. But next date, let’s go somewhere more exciting. Whaddya say?”
    “Deal.” She smiles.
    She tiptoes up the stairs to avoid waking Grandma and flicks the light on in her room. A small package sits on her pillow. Beneath the shiny blue paper she finds a framed photo of her mother—pregnant, just as she’d envisioned. A small card reads “ Happy Birthday, Claire-belle. Love, Gramps. ” He’s given her the perfect gift. She sets the photo on her nightstand, changes into flannel pajamas then climbs into bed, longing for sleep.
    But the moment she closes her eyes, the sensations return: the brisk night air, the desperation, the terror.
    She feels herself falling. No!
    She bolts upright, her heart pounding. She reaches for the photo, holds it to her chest. Then, as though guided by Mom, a fond memory surfaces. The summer before the fourth grade, she had a nightmare at sleep-away camp. She’d gone to the camp’s office and phoned her mother, hoping she’d speed to Lake Milaca and retrieve her.
    “I don’t have to come get you for you to feel safe,” Mom had said. “Like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz , remember? Home is right there with you, Claire-belle. I’m there, Grams and Gramps are there. You need to stay and have fun so you can tell us about your adventures when you come home.”
    Her words soothed her then―and now. She rests her head on her pillow, amused by the film that plays in her head: she as Dorothy, Zola as Toto, Grandpa as the lion—though not cowardly―and Grandma, Auntie Em. Her mother, the good witch, floats above as their angelic supervisor.
    She smiles. “Love you, Mom. Think you can keep watching over us tonight?”
    Claire drifts toward sleep, sensing that she will.
     

Chapter Ten
     
    He sits in his car, marveling at his good fortune, listening to Vivaldi’s “Spring.” Appropriate, he thinks, and increases the volume. The very night he chooses to drop by good old Gil’s home, Claire’s car is parked outside.
    Maybe it’s not luck, but destiny.
    Sinking lower in the driver’s seat, he positions the lens on his surveillance camera just so, and ... perfect. The front door swings open. She steps outside. With rapid silent clicks, he captures each moment. Click-click-click. Click-click-click. Giddy chills coat his skin as he watches the wind rifle her ponytail.
    As she walks in his direction, he imagines she’s walking toward him. She stops at her car as expected, not seeming to notice him a short distance down the street. But he feels their connectedness. It’s real and strong, if invisible—like the chill in the air.
    He longs to communicate with her. Let your hair down, he tries to tell her with his mind, continuing to snap pictures. He envisions her tresses falling loosely around her shoulders, splaying outward in the breeze.
    Stop! he commands, closing his eyes. He needs the separation, the differences between the two of them to stand out. Claire represents pain, loss, suffering. He cannot be fooled by her appearance! A wolf in sheep’s clothing, remnants of —him.
    Gil’s angered face appears in his mind, reminding him that Claire equals pain. It will all come full circle once he puts her to her rightful—perhaps fated—use. Ah yes. Luck has little to do with this.
    Poor girl, it isn’t her fault. But there is nothing anyone can do to fix or change that now. Righteousness will stem from her sin-laden life; she might find solace, even pride, in that.
    He watches the steam puff from her muffler, frozen air —visible chill. Nothing real stays invisible forever. Soon the physical distance between them will close. They’ll breathe the same air as they join together in the ultimate sacrifice.
    Soon...
    He watches her