My eyebrows knit together in an unspoken question. In answer, Eli held out his hand.

“Come on. I’ll show you.”

I stared warily at his outstretched hand. Eli sighed impatiently and waggled his fingers at me.

“It’s not a snake, Amelia. It won’t hurt you.”

“No, but you might.”

Eli sighed again and pulled back his hand. “Fine. Would you at least follow me, then?”

I thought about the request for a moment, then rose to my feet, trying to repress the thought that I currently stood on my own grave. And that I actually walked across my own grave as I followed Eli deeper into the cemetery.

Eli strode slowly through the grass for a while until he came to a weathered headstone. He stopped at the foot of the grave and, expressionless, stared at it.

“This,” he said, gesturing to the stone. “This is why I come here.”

The writing on the marker was plain and nondescript, perhaps intentionally so. It merely read:

ELI ROWLAND

1956—JULY 11, 1975

CLIMBING THE STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN

“Yikes,” I murmured.

Eli snorted in agreement. “My band mates obviously couldn’t remember my birthday. I don’t even think they contacted my family about my death. But the Led Zeppelin inscription’s a nice touch, isn’t it?”

“Heartfelt.” I turned back to him. “So . . . this means we’re buried in the same cemetery?”

He nodded, and then the tiniest smile crept over his features. When he spoke again, his tone had lost some of its bitter edge. “More proof that we’re fated to be together, don’t you think?”

“If that were the case, Eli, I’d have a whole graveyard full of choices, wouldn’t I?”

Eli chuckled darkly but then turned his eyes back to his headstone without further comment. He didn’t even watch me when I walked away from him.

I picked my way through the weeds, back to the relatively manicured area in which my own concrete slab lay. Once there, I knelt at the foot of my grave and pressed my hands to the low grass. It seemed firm enough beneath my hands. This plot of earth was no dream, no nightmare.

I had an instant, sickening thought: what lay in the grave now, just six feet below my fingertips? I didn’t know, but I could guess. An unbidden picture flashed into my mind, and I gagged. I turned my face to my shoulder so I wouldn’t have to stare at this suddenly repulsive stretch of grass.

Unfortunately, I realized only too late that I shouldn’t have turned. In doing so, I brought another headstone into my line of sight: the one right next to mine.

The early-morning sun had crested the horizon, and it now threw its soft pink rays from behind the neighboring headstone. The rays were almost strong enough to shadow the headstone and obscure its letters. Almost, but not quite.

On a tall stone, only slightly fancier than mine, the following letters glared out at me:

TODD ALLEN ASHLEY

JUNE 5, 1960—MARCH 29, 2006

WE’LL MEET AGAIN

The breath simply whooshed out of my lungs. As I sat there trying to reclaim it—hands pressed to the ground, eyes fixated on my father’s epitaph—the faint tunes of a song echoed in my ears. I closed my eyes and imagined the scene that had always seemed to go along with it.

My father and mother, on one of their happier days. One of those days when money worries or job insecurities didn’t bother them as much, and they each remembered the other’s presence. On those days my father would barge into our tiny kitchen and scoop my mother into his arms. It wouldn’t matter if she was covered in flour from making our dinner or suds from the dishes. She would wrap her arms around his neck and lay her head upon his shoulder while he crooned an old tune to her, one that promised they’d meet again, sometime, someplace.

The song was so loud in my head, I didn’t hear Eli walk up behind me.

“You don’t have to be sad about your death anymore, Amelia.” Eli’s voice cut off the song just at its crescendo. “I’m here to share it with you,” he added, placing one hand upon my shoulder.

I brushed Eli’s hand away, perhaps with unnecessary force. “I’m not sad about my death, Eli. I’m sad about his.” I pointed to my father’s grave, my finger jutting out in a rigid accusation, as if to blame the grave itself for my misery.

“Oh. And who is this?”

“My father,” I whispered.

“This stone?” Eli leaned over me to read the stone. “Todd Ashley? This is your father?”

“Y-yes.”

The word broke apart as I spoke it. I pressed one hand to my lips in an effort to hold back the torrent, but it was too late. My enormous, gasping sobs ripped through the dawn air, wrenching out of me not only my breath but also a great flood of tears.

I sank, then, at the foot of my father’s grave. I left my hands on the grass and lay my head upon them. I let my tears fall from my face, onto my hands and then onto the ground.

“You’re . . . crying,” Eli breathed in wonder.

“Yes,” I moaned, but then barked out a bizarre little laugh. I pushed myself back up into a seated position, wiping ineffectually at my cheeks and my chin. “I’ve been known to do that from time to time.”

Eli grabbed my waist, and, before I realized what was happening, he pulled me to my feet and whirled me around to face him.

“You’ll never have to cry again. Not while you’re with me.”

His fingers dug into the fabric of my dress. With one huge breath—for courage, perhaps—he wrenched me to him and pressed his lips to mine.

His mouth muffled my cry of protest. I shoved hard against his chest, but my struggles only made him pull me tighter.

As the kiss continued, I cried out again, but not in protest. This time, I did so in fear.

Because, while Eli kept his mouth crushed to mine, I felt a piercing sensation there, like something had ripped the delicate skin of my lower lip apart. The corners of my eyes prickled from the pain.

When Eli loosened his grip in an attempt to cup my cheek, I was finally able to break free. As I pushed myself out of his arms, I had to retreat several steps back onto my own grave. Even without the pressure of Eli’s mouth to mine, my bottom lip still throbbed painfully, rhythmically. My tongue darted to the tender spot on my lips and, inexplicably, I tasted copper.

“What did you just do to me?” I gasped, bringing my fingers to my lips but not yet touching them.

Eli had the decency, at least, to look confused. “I’m pretty sure I kissed you, Amelia.”

I dragged the back of my hand across my mouth and then looked down at it. There, smeared across the skin of my hand, was a streak of something bright red.

Blood.

“Y-your teeth,” I stuttered. “I think they cut me. I . . . I’m bleeding.”

Eli shook his head, uncomprehending. “No. No, that’s not possible.”

“Oh, it isn’t?” I said, wiping again at my mouth where I could still feel a hot swell of blood. “Then what’s this on my lips?”

“I don’t know. But whatever it is, you’re wrong,” Eli protested. “I wouldn’t hurt you, Amelia. Not like that. Besides, I couldn’t if I tried—we’re both dead.”

“It doesn’t matter.” My voice rose to a near shout. “You won’t be kissing me again anyway.”

“Oh, I think I will, Amelia. We’re fated.”

“Quit saying that,” I hissed.

“I’ll say whatever I want to you. You’re fated to serve me, remember?”

I laughed and shook my head. “Oh, I remember, Eli. And thanks for reminding me: I should have known better than to trust you, even for a second.”

Eli’s mouth twisted as if he’d bitten into something sour. “And who do you trust, Amelia Ashley? That boy? That living boy?”

I thrust back my shoulders. “That’s none of your business, Eli Rowland.”

His scowl deepened into a disdainful smile. “Exactly what do you hope to do with him? Live a long and happy life?”