“I call it soul-surfing. It is a very good way to travel, when there are many people nearby.” When Allie first learned to skinjack—before she knew what it was called— she had called it body-surfing. But this feat of relaying oneself across a crowd in seconds—this truly deserved to be called surfing. She wondered if it felt as invigorating as riding a wave. Milos looked around at the modest crowd of the little street fair. “Okay, your turn.”

“Wh-what?” Allie sputtered. “I can’t do that! I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“Start with her.” Milos pointed to a woman sitting on a bench, reading a newspaper.

“Make as if you mean to skinjack her, but don’t take full control. Instead, you must use her to slingshot to the next person, then the next, then the next. Once you get a rhythm, you can work your way to the end of any crowd in seconds.”

He climbed into a passing pedestrian, vanished, then a few seconds later appeared across the street.

“Try it!” he called. “From there to here. Short hop.”

Allie leaped into the woman on the bench, but lingered too long, and had to peel herself out, which never happened quickly—it was like peeling off a glove. Since Allie didn’t immediately put her to sleep, the woman knew something funny was going on. She stood up, looked around, and walked away, unnerved.

Milos had already surfed back and was beside her.

“Well, that didn’t work,” said Allie.

“Because you took hold. Do not stay long enough to hear the thoughts—just long enough to get a small glimpse through the eyes, then push off.”

Allie tried it again with a different person, but still stayed an instant too long, and got drawn in. Milos was patient with her, and encouraging. “Think of Tarzan,” he said. “It is like Tarzan swinging on ropes.” Then he beat his chest and made a Tarzan yell that made Allie laugh. She tried it again, and the third time was the charm. She began to jump out before she was done jumping in, and it worked! She pushed off from one person to another. Images passed before her like snapshots, but all unrelated and random. Every fleshie was looking in a slightly different direction, and saw things differently. Colors changed, eyesight changed. Each person she surfed was focusing on something different within their field of vision—but now that Allie had the rhythm she could keep herself moving. She began to feel dizzy, and finally took root in a fleshie to stop herself, and—

—nagging nagging nagging—if she doesn’t stop nagging I’ll go crazy—nagging nagging nagging—

She found herself sitting in a restaurant, holding a spoon and looking across the table at a very old woman.

“Harold? Harold? How’s the soup, Harold?” the old woman said to her.