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unexplored territory. Not even Cyrus knows what happens after we die.
    With every mile I put between me and Cyrus, I feel a weight lifting. Even in the rain, California has never looked so beautiful and alive. I glance up at the stars, pinpricks pushing through the clouds, like they might fall into the bay.
    I hope you’re out there, Mother, I think, because I’m coming.
    But my euphoria comes at a high price, quickly sapping my remaining energy. My hands shake on the steering wheel and my vision blurs, turning the oncoming headlights into long yellow ribbons. I barely have enough energy to push the gas pedal. A car honks and swerves around me, and I fear that I’m no longer in charge of my body.
    I let out a little sigh and tighten my grip on the wheel. I had wanted to go all the way to Big Sur, to be deep in the pines, listening to nothing but the cold wind and the hooting of owls on gnarled branches, but I’m fading—fast. I won’t make it to Big Sur. Even if I tried, I would probably get into a car accident and end up killing someone else in the process.
    Oakland, I decide, is as good a place as any to die. The road turns sharply as I begin the descent from Treasure Island toward Oakland, passing a tattered and faded billboard advertising a judgment day that never came. Beyond that, an eerie cluster of shipping-container cranes look out over the Oakland port like ancient guardians of the city.
    I guide the car down Franklin Street, toward Jack London Square. A lone light shines on the loading docks of Second Street, illuminating the small droplets of mist that hang in the night air. I pull over on a side street, holding my head in my hands. The wave of weakness crests, then recedes. Trembling, I pull the key from the ignition, hoist my bag on my shoulder, and set off silently through the gloom. Sidestepping slicks of oil and crumbling potholes, I make my way toward a neon sign that reads SALOON , tucked under a termite-gnawed eave.
    I know my time is short, but still, I’m not going to die sitting in my car. Though our original bodies die a human death, our stolen bodies collapse into dust when we leave them, exhausted from the energy it takes to host a foreign soul. I want my dusty remains to return to nature, not add to the layer of grime in this old Ford.
    I decide to go in and get something to drink. I have to admit I’m scared, and wine will take the edge off my nerves, make me brave, before I chase my destiny into the great beyond.
    Once inside I set my getaway bag on the ground and slide onto a heavy oak bar stool, smiling briefly at the two older men who sit next to each other not talking. After a moment I feel their eyes fall away, and they return to their beers. Catching sight of my high cheekbones and espresso-colored hair in the mirror behind the bar, I understand why they were looking. Even this close to death, I am beautiful.
    The bartender mops the area in front of me and tosses down a napkin. He is skinny, with tattoos snaking up his arms, and eyes that suggest too few hours of sleep. He reminds me vaguely of Jared. “What can I get you?” he asks in a flat tone.
    “Glass of red wine, please.”
    “I’m going to have to see some ID.”
    I look up and meet his eyes. “Is that really necessary?” I hold his gaze for several long seconds. When he holds firm, I sigh and dig out the ID that matches my face: Jennifer Combs, age twenty-two. The bartender studies the ID and for one giddy second I imagine telling him my real age, just to see his reaction. But I hold myself in check. The last thing I need is to draw attention to myself.
    The bartender passes the laminated card back to me before pouring my drink. I stick Jennifer Combs—a name Cyrus made up when I took this body—back into my purse. I won’t be needing her anymore.
    “Thanks.” I take a long sip of what will be my last drink ever, then sit back and survey the room. The bar is old, with an intricately detailed tin ceiling covered in