But no matter how I tried, I couldn’t not think of the man. With his bottle and his gun. I couldn’t not picture his tooth. I couldn’t not see him in my mind, standing in the creek, peering curiously up into the Vine Realm.

I stood at the window, thinking. If I were a homeless man who’d discovered a nice little overhang, a safe embankment, and a well-trodden path into a hidden place. If I were sleeping outside, and it began to crash and rain terribly hard on a dark night, where would I go?

I looked at the sky beyond the porch, into the empty blank space above. I listened to all the sounds of the storm—the cracking and thunder and the wind, and the rain itself, beating against the tin roof of the carport like a shower of coins. The streets would be flooding. Which meant the creek would be high.

I stood up, walked to the center of the room. Probably she was fine. Probably I was imagining things. Even if the man did find the house, maybe he was nice, just a guy looking for a dry place to hole up. Maybe Jasper was sharing her pickles with him.

I shook my head. No matter how I tried, I couldn’t push the pictures out. The crashing storm, tearing away pieces of Jasper’s house, tossing branches onto her roof. The man, with his tooth. His gun. His glance up into the kudzu.

Deep inside myself, I felt that something was wrong.

I couldn’t explain it. It didn’t make any logical sense. I just felt it, like someone was crying so far away I couldn’t really hear it, but I knew it was still happening.

How could I ignore the voice that wasn’t there?

How could I do that . . . again?

How could I ignore this feeling? How could I look away? Here I was, in my safe dry room. Back on the raft. Meanwhile, Jasper was out there, floating, alone . . .

I jumped as the lightning flashed again, and it lit up my room, illuminating the painting on the wall. My portal. The door that wasn’t a real door. Couldn’t be . . .

Only somehow, in the gleaming flash of the moment, the door looked different. Now the vines looked greener, brighter, more entwined. The brown door looked different too—rougher, as though made from old splintered wood. And the knob. The knob shone, glossy and polished. As though made of actual brass, as though I might actually be able to . . .

It wasn’t possible.

I couldn’t be possible.

And yet . . .

So I ran. I ran at the door. I bounded, crossed the room in three steps. Breathless, I reached out an open hand, stretched my fingers, wishing, hoping.

I reached for the knob, and—

as a huge crash of thunder shook the house and lit up the door floating above me—