Keep reaching … get back to the hotel …

It was a painter, a friendly sort of guy all in white coveralls with a painter’s cap on his head and a roller in his hand. He was circling her warily, keeping some distance, looking right at her, nearly solid.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“The name’s Ernie. Ernie Myers,” he said. He stared intensely, studying her from different angles. “Are you really there? You look like some kind of Tinkerbell or something.”

He reached with his finger to touch her but she shied back. “No, better not touch me!”

“But how do you do that?”

“I need to get back to the Orpheus Hotel!”

“The Orpheus Hotel! Little girl, you are lost!”

She tried to look beyond him, to see that world, the stage, and the garbage truck. She thought she could hear the truck rumbling … somewhere.

“You sure you’re really there?” he said, and this time he did manage to poke her.

As if he’d been electrocuted he jolted, screamed, twisted, his arms enfolding his pain.

She didn’t see what became of him. The moment he touched her she spun away as if caught in a whirlwind and fell out of there, through space, through blurring lights and sounds. She heard the truck and locked on it.

She was floating above the crowd, still watching the Dumpster hanging upside down above the truck as the driver jerked the levers and shook it.

She’d lost no time!

Somehow—she still didn’t know how; thinking it was the same as doing it—she zipped through the Dumpster, grabbed the coveralls into the in-between and got into them, then aligned herself with the ground so she could step out onto it. She yanked a billed cap from a pocket of the coveralls and put it on. Ready? There wasn’t a moment to spare.

The driver of the garbage truck gave the levers a wiggle, the Dumpster made one final lurch, and the lid dropped open. The bag, limp and empty, and the two pairs of handcuffs dropped into the truck’s container.

That was the moment of misdirection, when all eyes were on the Dumpster. Mandy stepped into the real, solid, present world just behind the driver and touched his shoulder; he ducked under the truck, out of sight. Mandy hopped up on the truck’s running board, let out a whoop to get the crowd’s attention, then took off her cap and waved it at everyone.

The effect worked. She’d vanished from the Dumpster and appeared in the place of the driver.

Great stunt. The crowd loved it.

She ran onto the stage, reached with an unseen hand, and brought the microphone to her. “Thank you!” she said to the crowd, and then toward the heavens. “Thank you!”

For that one fleeting moment onstage, the sorrow lay buried under the moment and the show business. She knew it would be back, but right here, right now, she relished her own little victory, the very pleasant fact that once she was captive, but now she was free. “I am Mandy Whitacre!”

The first time Ernie Myers fell off a ladder and his crewmen brought him into the emergency room with a cracked rib and broken clavicle, Dr. Margo Kessler and her secretive associates were able to send him home the next day with no broken bones and no memory of the accident.

The second time there would be no way to fix his injuries but the conventional way and he was sure to remember everything that happened to him. This inconvenient complication originated in the bowels of the off-limits basement, but it fell to Dr. Kessler, the benign face aboveground, to clear it up. She was steaming, feeling put upon and jeopardized, but she put on the best demeanor she could muster to wring information out of him.

“Silly ladder,” he said, the pain keeping him still as he lay in his hospital bed. “The legs are crooked, so the thing rocks. I should have learned from the first time, right?”

Me, too,she thought. “So no dizziness beforehand? No vision problems, anything like that?”

“No, ma’am.”

“No hallucinations?”

“Hallu——what are you talking about?”

“The guys who brought you in—”

“Jim and Don. My crewmen.”

“Yes. They said that right before the accident they heard you talking to somebody who looked like a … Tinkerbell?”

He winced and wagged his head. “That was my roller. I got names for everything. The roller was getting kinda flighty, leaving gaps, so I was talking to the roller.”

“Talking to your roller.”

“Yeah. I talk to things, talk to myself.”

“So, who was lost and looking for the Orpheus Hotel?”

Now Ernie got a little mad. “What? Those guys don’t have any work to do, they’re just sitting around listening to the boss talk to his roller. What’s up with that?”

She smiled pleasantly, trying to keep him at ease. “I’m just covering all the bases here. I have to make sure there’s no head trauma. You hit your head the last time, remember?”

“Not really.”

She chuckled and nodded. “That’s right, you wouldn’t remember that.” She wrote something down on the chart—made a scribble, actually; she was buying time. “Ernie …” First-name basis. She pulled a chair close to the bed and sat down, closer to eye level, more personal. “You don’t have to be afraid to tell the truth. I’m the doctor, I’m here to make sure you’re okay.”

He seemed to be listening.

“Sometimes when people have had a head injury, they see things, they might see people who aren’t really there. It’s nothing to be ashamed of or embarrassed about but you see, if you fell and hurt yourself due to a prior head injury, I need to know about it.”

She raised her eyebrows slightly, suggesting she was waiting for his response.

He looked at her for a long moment and she looked back, hoping, expecting …

“I fell off a ladder!” was all he had to say.

Sunday morning, Dane went through the doors of Christian Faith Center, embraced old friends, worshipped, then remained in his pew afterward, joined by friends and Pastor Chuck. Dane told them he was still working through his loss, wondering what to do, trying to resolve lingering issues, and could they pray with him? They nodded and prayed accordingly, even though he meant more than they thought they understood. He just had to hope the Lord would appreciate the spirit of their loving generalities while he silently footnoted the specifics:

That he would not be crazy, that somehow everything would come to rest on a rational explanation he could take home. Preston had a great-sounding theory, but it was so much like everything else he’d been through, simply outlandish, that it could not quell his doubts and fears even as he pursued it.

That he would not do anything really stupid.

That the Lord would help him get over Eloise—he thought it best not to call her Mandy. Whatever this fixation with a twenty-year-old was, it had to be affecting his thinking. It could be the single reason he was back in town, and that was dangerous. However it turned out, whatever he found out, it was to resolve his own issues and get peace of mind, not … well, he didn’t even want to think about it.

But he did pray that God would take care of the girl, keeping her strong and pure, and not let anyone in this town—and that included the likes of that Seamus character—soil her or lead her astray.

Dear Lord, just help her find out who she is and where she belongs.

The prayer huddle took place in the second pew from the front, Dane and Mandy’s favorite spot for the whole fifteen years they attended the church, and where Dane sat for the worship service that day.

She’d dressed up for church, sat near the back, remained just a few minutes to pray a prayer not too different from his. She slipped quietly out, lost in the mix, saying hello to the friendly people, feeling so much better until some heads turned and she heard a lady say, “Doesn’t she look like … ?”

She walked quickly, turning her face away. She didn’t want to hear it.