She wondered, fleetingly, why she bothered, because it wasn’t like she was really here. Or really here in body, at least. She didn’t suppose her spirit required clothing, although she couldn’t recall ever seeing a naked spirit. Then again, if she encountered anyone else—and she particularly wanted to encounter at least one other person, presumably also in spirit—she preferred to be dressed.

Hollis wasted a moment or so wondering if she really had dressed her spirit, or if she hadn’t but had only gone through the motions because one did. If she saw herself clothed because she wanted to see herself that way. And if she saw other spirits clothed because she preferred to see them clothed. It struck her as one of those imponderable questions that often littered her life, especially in recent years, and she decided not to ponder it further. Not right now, at least.

She was very careful not to look back at the bed at first, not wanting to confirm what she knew was happening and half-afraid, as always, that she’d freeze solid like Lot’s wife. But Hollis was nothing if not curious, so she finally looked back over her shoulder and saw what she expected, even if it made her feel even colder. And totally creeped out.

Herself. Lying there seemingly alone, her face peaceful in sleep, her body a bit curled near the center of the wide bed, under the covers and comfortable, one arm flung out as though it were lying across a broad chest that was not visible because Reese was not visible.

She wondered, suddenly and disturbingly, why she was even able to see her own body in the gray time. Because her spirit was here? Was that why she couldn’t see Reese, because he was in their bed body and spirit, in the normal realm of existence for them?

And not this cold and gray realm of . . . wherever?

An icy finger traced up and down her spine.

“Shit,” she said, and heard the peculiarly hollow sound of her own voice that was normal in the gray time. She forced her gaze away from her sleeping self in the bed and took a moment to look slowly around the room again. Everything was gray and oddly one-dimensional and featureless. The framed prints on the wall looked like smudges; even the two very colorful paintings she had attempted in recent months and Reese had had framed looked gray; and the paneled woodwork looked flat. And gray. Furniture was one-dimensional, no depth or light or shadow. And gray.

Everything was gray.

That was the overwhelming sense she got, that everything around her was gray and cold and empty, really, of color or dimension, light or shadow. Or life. Desolate. She always forgot how utterly desolate this place—or time—was. Until she was in it. She felt very, very alone.

She found a slipper half-hidden beside the bed, having to kneel on the bedside rug and reach under for its partner. She got up, slid her feet into them, and turned away toward the room’s door.