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When the moon was high the music would stop. The dancing stopped. We froze.
    Mrs. Bethel Utemeyer, the oldest resident of my heaven, would bring out her violin. Holly tread lightly on her horn. They
     would do a duet. One woman old and silent, one woman not past girl yet. Back and forth, a crazy schizoid solace they’d create.
    All the dancers would slowly go inside. The song reverberated until Holly, for a final time, passed the tune over, and Mrs.
     Utemeyer, quiet, upright, historical, finished with a jig.
    The house asleep by then; this was my Evensong.

THREE
    T he odd thing about Earth was what we saw when we looked down. Besides the initial view that you might suspect, the old ants-from-the-skyscraper
     phenomenon, there were souls leaving bodies all over the world.
    Holly and I could be scanning Earth, alighting on one scene or another for a second or two, looking for the unexpected in
     the most mundane moment. And a soul would run by a living being, touch them softly on the shoulder or cheek, and continue
     on its way to heaven. The dead are never exactly seen by the living, but many people seem acutely aware of something changed
     around them. They speak of a chill in the air. The mates of the deceased wake from dreams and see a figure standing at the
     end of their bed, or in a doorway, or boarding, phantomlike, a city bus.
    On my way out of Earth, I touched a girl named Ruth. She went to my school but we’d never been close. She was standing in
     my path that night when my soul shrieked out of Earth. I could not help but graze her. Once released from life, having lost
     it in such violence, I couldn’t calculate my steps. I didn’t have time for contemplation. In violence, it is the getting away
     that you concentrate on. When you begin to go over the edge, life receding from you as a boat recedes inevitably from shore,
     you hold on to death tightly, like a rope that will transport you, and you swing out on it, hoping only to land away from
     where you are.
    Like a phone call from the jail cell, I brushed by Ruth Connors—wrong number, accidental call. I saw her standing there near
     Mr. Botte’s red and rusted Fiat. When I streaked by her, my hand leapt out to touch her, touch the last face, feel the last
     connection to Earth in this not-so-standard-issue teenage girl.
    On the morning of December seventh, Ruth complained to her mother about having had a dream that seemed too real to be a dream.
     When her mother asked her what she meant, Ruth said, “I was crossing through the faculty parking lot, and suddenly, down out
     of the soccer field, I saw a pale running ghost coming toward me.”
    Mrs. Connors stirred the hardening oatmeal in its pot. She watched her daughter gesticulating with the long thin fingers of
     her hands—hands she had inherited from her father.
    “It was female, I could sense that,” Ruth said. “It flew up out of the field. Its eyes were hollow. It had a thin white veil
     over its body, as light as cheesecloth. I could see its face through it, the features coming up through it, the nose, the
     eyes, the face, the hair.”
    Her mother took the oatmeal off the stove and lowered the flame. “Ruth,” she said, “you’re letting your imagination get the
     best of you.”
    Ruth took the cue to shut up. She did not mention the dream that was not a dream again, even ten days later, when the story
     of my death began to travel through the halls of the school, receiving add-on nuances as all good horror stories do. They
     were hard-pressed, my peers, to make the horror any more horrible than it was. But the details were still missing—the what
     and when and who became hollow bowls to fill with their conjectures. Devil Worship. Midnight. Ray Singh.
    Try as I might, I could not point Ruth strongly enough to what no one had found: my silver charm bracelet. I thought it might
     help her. It lay exposed, waiting for a hand to reach out, a hand that would recognize it and think,
Clue.
But