The door had opened the night before to a land that had seemed all sky, no ground. The air was a northern lights swirl of greens and teal, and two spirits, both shaped like people and never changing or misting, were calling to each other “It is safer to be dead than to be alive.” They walked through the lights, saying it over and over as if the phrase were their version of Marco Polo. Ayanna blinked away the memory, stared at a wall of different kinds of trail mixes, gourmet to midnight snacking, until she felt fully back in the world. Ready to get out from the bright lights and white tiles, Ayanna got in the rideshare. It smelled like someone had tried to Febreze out cigarette smoke and like someone who had worn musty rich-lady perfume had cooked herself in the backseat. The driver looked as if she could have been Ayanna’s cool younger sister: box braids, red-boned, wearing dark green lipstick and sunglasses that matched the shade.

“Your whole vibe. I love it,” Ayanna said.

“Thanks, baby. I do this for me but I’m glad you appreciate it.”

There was a song on the radio about flying to the moon over a sick beat. Ayanna wondered if it was actually about the moon or if that was the new thing everyone was saying instead of rolling or tripping. It made her feel old and out of touch. Most of her thoughts again were about elsewhere.

Tell the moon I love her, a voice with a lot of reverb crooned on the radio.

“Someone wants to speak to you,” the driver said.

“What?”

“Since I was a girl, spirits have moved through me,” she said. “It’s rare. But there’s one here.”

Ayanna looked around but saw no one. Then, she met the driver’s eyes in the mirror. She had taken off her sunglasses and they were as pink as a spirit, no pupils or irises.