In high school, a girl had told Ayanna that some doctors speculated that when you died, there were ten minutes or so where you knew you were dead because your neurons were still firing, where you could hear the world around you but could also know this was the end. There was no life flashing before your eyes. There was only the anxious rush of your brain attempting to reassure itself and cling to life when facing the eternity of nonexistence you were rushing toward. When her brain moved into the void, her hands uncurled until fingers rested flat on the rough sheets, shoulders moved away from ears, even toes and arches let go of their rigidity. The release of being nothing that came from the pill.

After five minutes or so of this, Ayanna felt aware of a presence on her bed. It was talking to her for a long time, something that was a mix of saying things about a daughter, a digression about what was the most romantic song in the world, and Ayanna knew she was high because the voice kept insisting it was “I Know What You Want” (featuring Mariah Carey), and she thought maybe it was her mother, finally ready to forgive her. Was her mother dead? Did her mother like Mariah? No, it was always Whitney for her. But the woman was saying, “You have to find Marlie Evans, you have to tell her where my body is, you have to tell her I love her, I love her, I wouldn’t ever leave her.”

She slept a little, then felt a hand on her face. Lips on hers. Ayanna opened her eyes and a man was there that she didn’t know. He was saying, It’s you, Liana. A layer of pink light was around him, and as he touched her face, the man sometimes shifted from what looked like a donkey to another man’s face to an apple tree.

“I’m not Liana,” Ayanna said.

“You were her. I can hear her voice beneath yours, I can see her life pulsing in your heart.”

“No.”

“We’re meant to be together.”