Vera hovers above the worshippers in this basement that reeks of mold, cat urine, and Christmas potpourri. She watches their heads bow in reverence to the most average guy in the world. She is an ethereal observer. They can’t see her in this room with no windows, no air.

“Join hands with your neighbors now, because you are not going alone. The sun that lights our days is also a star, just like those that light our nights. We are the same. Life and death are stages of the same existence, and soon we will embrace this next phase together.”

Everyone nods, humming with a drugged cadence as his words burrow into them, digging so deep that all prior thoughts and beliefs collapse. Vera spies Samantha sitting in the front row, eyes glistening, mouth hanging open in adoration. A girl no older than five squirms on the ground in front of her, and Samantha’s mother pats the child’s curly red hair. Collectively the group leans forward. Toward him. It is all about him.

Lining the walls are boxes piled high like moving day, brown paper sides bulging. Vera floats toward them, gazing inside. Yellow hats with a stupid logo. Ceramic magnets. Piles of hardback books self-published with a Comic Sans font. Caches upon caches of shrines to the Angel of Tears.

“We are all sharing an insignificant, temporary experience on Earth. This life is merely a bus stop, a brief discomfort to be gotten through before journeying on to our true destination,” the young man preaches, pacing before his worshippers. “The afterlife is endless harmony. Your loved ones yearn for you to join them. So I ask you, Why are we waiting? Why not ascend to that higher plane now? We are the chosen believers. Are you not ready?”

Eyes shoot up in unison, heads bobbing loosely, palms raised.

“Yes!”

“We’re with you!”

“I’m ready!”

A baby wails, then there is a glint of starburst. Vera can’t detect its source, but it draws her attention, pulling her near. Vera floats to the altar, fashioned from a cheap dining table and holding a supersized statue of the Angel of Tears. Beside it is another cardboard box.

Even here, even in a space outside of herself, Vera is chilled with icy particles of dread.

She hovers above the carton, peering inside.

Chalices.

Dozens upon dozens are stacked in bubble wrap, their gold trim gleaming through the rippling plastic.

They are waiting to be distributed.

They are waiting to be drunk from.

Together.

In unison.

One last drink.

Forever.

“No!” Vera shouted, eyes blinking rapidly as the bedroom came back into focus. She was on her back, goose bumps covering her arms, staring at a burnt-orange water stain on an unfamiliar ceiling. Had she fallen?

“Vera? Talk to me. You’re freezing.” Max’s hands gripped her shoulders, shaking her slightly as she returned to her senses.

God, this room. Her eyes danced around at the plaid bedspread, the dated furniture, the bland wall color. It was exactly as it had been when the boy lay there on the brink of death, his mother sobbing and clutching his hand while his father placed the statue by his side. The shrine wasn’t just on that nightstand, it was the entire room, a devotion not just to the Angel of Tears but to his father, Seth Durand, to the man who blew up Roaring Creek. This was a time capsule to his sacrifice, his destruction.