Maybe I wouldn’t have been like Jeremiah, you know? Maybe I could have done it right and the power wouldn’t have gone to my head, the Spirit wouldn’t have infected me like it did him, turning him rotten to the core. Maybe I could have used my visions to help people, not rob them. Maybe I could have been the real prophet, the one to actually bring light to the world.

Because the fact is, I’m pretty sure the sacrifice worked. I spilled Grandma’s blood. And I hear the voice of the Spirit at night, whispering things in my ear, telling me what is possible for me, that all of these things can be my reality anytime I choose. Sometimes I catch glimpses when I’m talking to people—the teller at the bank, the lady in line in front of me at the grocery store, Horace, even Murphy—and I see into their lives, and I feel the pull of the Spirit guiding me, telling me exactly what to say to get everything I want from them, what would make them love me and follow me forever.

I think maybe I could go back to the Farm again, do it right this time. And it makes me miss Grandma so bad I can’t stand it. I miss the way she loved me and how great she thought I was. I miss Cass and what it felt like to have a whole crew of people want me around. I miss having a grand purpose, knowing I’m part of something bigger than myself, and I want it back again. I want the Farm. I want everything.

Those nights are the worst, nightmares of loneliness and pain and desire and regret the likes of which I’ve never known before, and I’m never sure I will survive them.

But then the morning comes, and it’s like I can breathe again, and I’m okay.