Beyond by Graham McNamee Page B

to their bodies, they say the Enders cry out to them. Sometimes even touch them as they pass by.”
    I know that touch. When my shadow in the emergency room ripped me away from the light it left an invisible tattoo, in the shape of its fingers.
    “You think that’s what my shadow really is? One of these Enders?” I look at the picture with the dark creatures that seem dead to the light.
    “Kind of matches your description. But they’re supposed to be powerless. They can’t attack you. They’re trapped in the Divide. They don’t try to steal you away and don’t follow you home.”
    But somehow my Grim Ender did.

This is Lexi’s idea. A day off from death and darkness.
    “You need a break,” she told me on the phone this misty Saturday morning. “Before you have a breakdown.”
    She’s right. I need to forget everything for an afternoon and try to find my way back to the real world.
    So here we are at the mall.
    “I’ve got the perfect cure for you,” she says as we step inside. “Let’s try a little white-trash spa.”
    I smile. Exactly what I need. By “spa” she means a mall crawl, where we go around the stores trying out cosmetics and perfumes, giving ourselves makeovers and collecting samples, and skimming magazines in the bookstore.
    I’m doing it all in kind of a daze, so sleep deprived it feels like a sweet, silly dream.
    Then we take photos of us trying on clothes we’re not going to buy, from ultrasleek to dead skanky. Everything looks good on Lexi; she’s got a petite hourglass figure. But me—flat, no hips and no bounce in my butt. People see me and think tomboy. If only they knew what was hidingin my room—wallpapered in half-naked guys, my library of lust in the closet.
    After the crawl, we end our spa at the food court, in a peaceful spot near the fake waterfall, eating nachos and curly fries.
    I say no to seeing a movie. I’m not up to sitting in the dark for two hours, constantly looking over my shoulder.
    I feel safe in this crowd, under the bright lights. So relaxed I could curl up for a catnap next to those plastic palms. I try to focus on what Lexi’s saying.
    “Look at this shirt. My mom keeps stealing my stuff from the laundry. It’s all stretched out by her big boobs. She says people think we’re sisters when they see us together, which is completely delusional.…”
    Her voice gets lost in the background noise of falling water. I nod, closing my eyes for a second.
    Snorting awake, I look around, disoriented. Then I notice Lexi filming me across the table.
    “How long was I …?”
    “Just ten minutes.” She sets her camera down. “Thought I’d let you rest a while. You know you get all twitchy in your sleep? Like a dog who dreams he’s running.”
    I stretch my back with a groan. “If I see that online I’ll use your guts for garters.”
    She laughs. “So are you up for a drive? I was thinking of taking some video for my rain flick. Perfect weather.”
    “Sure. Where to?”
*  *  *
    Widows’ Peak is the highest point on this stretch of coast. It looks down on Edgewood and all the way over to the cliffs of Lookout Hill on the far side of town. The two rises stick out from the old forest that surrounds the town, bookending the place.
    “How does this thing work?” I ask Lexi.
    She’s got me helping with the sound, using the directional microphone she borrowed from her film club.
    “You just aim it and press Record. Wear the earbuds so you hear what you’re catching. And don’t worry, it’s waterproof.”
    We’re parked at the end of the gravel road that leads to the peak. Getting out of the car, I stick the buds in and pull up the hood of my yellow slicker. Lexi looks more than ever like the Reaper’s little sister, with her hood hiding her face and her black slicker reaching down to her ankles.
    A heavy drizzle is falling, but I can still see pretty far. The view from here is why the fishermen’s wives and mothers came to this peak. They could look