Around the edge of the photo is a bright yellow border and the words New York City written in curvy letters.

I smile and stand, my foot kicking a small book that slides across the attic floor, coming to a rest by the door. I pick it up. Compared to the Scripture it is tiny, just slightly larger than the photo of New York City and only as thick as my thumb. I slip the picture inside and tuck the book into my shirt to keep it safe. On the porch Travis has tied one end of my makeshift rope to the thicker rope and the other end to an arrow. He notches the arrow, aims, holds his breath and then releases the bowstring.

The arrow soars through the air, its long tail of brightly colored fabric trailing behind it, before it digs into the edge of the platform at Harry's feet.

“Nice shot,” I tell him.

His mouth curves up as he responds with a wink, “One of the many things at which I excel over my brother.” I slide my hand into his; heat radiates up my neck and into my cheeks and we watch as Harry grabs the rope from the arrow and begins to pull. Travis holds our end up with his free hand so that it doesn't sag down to get tangled in the Unconsecrated.

Finally, my braided strips run out and the heavy rope begins to make its way across the divide between us. My body trembles in fear as I watch it span the gap and I constantly measure the amount left on the porch and how much space is left to cover.

I almost weep with relief when Harry grasps the thick rope and begins to wind it around a sturdy branch in their tree. Travis pulls his end taut and ties it off on a beam in the attic. The floor shudders beneath us with such force that I am forced to grab Travis to keep from losing my balance.

Glancing inside, I can see the trapdoor straining, Argos skittering around it, barking and growling. We're running out of time.

Not wasting a moment, Travis dashes back into the attic. I hear crashing as he turns over and empties a large barrel once filled with flour, a cloud of fine powder shrouding him from view.

He hauls the barrel out to the edge of the platform, his entire body now lightly dusted white. I want to laugh at his ghostly-pale appearance but his skin looks the color of death.

The color of the Unconsecrated.

I slip my hand over his and squeeze it. He tries to smile in return.

As I convince Argos to jump into the barrel Travis uses extra rope to make a sling around it, attaching it to the line spanning out to the platforms so that the barrel can travel from our porch to theirs. Argos whimpers, claws at the sides, and it's everything I can do to keep him from jumping out.