Alone at night, I slide my hand between my legs and think about the black sand. Even on those rare occasions when there’s someone next to me, on top of me, inside of me, the black sand is what I want. To be pressed down, down, down, to where there is no light. To where I have no control, to where my limbs are pinned, to where I can be blamed for nothing. Serena’s slow voice, her fingertips on my neck. I think about those too. I still keep her comb in my bedside drawer, though all remnants of her hair have long dissolved.

They never found Serena, or her body. The summer program at the Center was discontinued. What she told me about her father was a lie. But it was true in its own way. He might as well have been dead, gone, because he sent her to the place that had killed her mother every summer, paid to keep her quiet and contained, so he could be alone with his new wife, a wife who didn’t like this sullen, beautiful daughter, no, not at all. That old slog, indeed. It was a punishment. In my darkest moments, I think it was also an invitation. Serena didn’t want to be there at the Center, chasing her mother’s ghost into the trees. She wanted to stay with her father. He didn’t want to be bothered. She wanted to be loved, kept, important. He wanted to forget her, to live his new life, to pretend to be childless, careless, free.

Well, he will not forget her now.

As for her mother: I found out much later that she was desperately in love with that famous teacher, the one who swore levitation was possible for those who followed his instructions. I heard that she snuck into his tent every night until the end. He was old, yes, but holy, which changes things. She believed in something. It was an open secret; everyone at the Center knew. Then suddenly he was gone, and her husband despised her. I see how it could have happened. Serena was too young then; she couldn’t be expected to understand. Would you blame her if she managed to confuse things?