“It’s a crossroads of its own kind,” she continues. “And strange things always appear at a crossroads. Some of ’em good, and some of ’em not so good. Places like this are what they used to call betwixt.”

“Betwixt?” Daniel asks beside me.

“Like where the land meets the sea.”

“You mean the shore?” he says.

“I mean betwixt,” she insists.

“So what does that mean for me?”

She shrugs. “Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. You got salt in the blood, so probably more of the latter.”

“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I don’t know what that means, salt in the blood.”

“It means you’re a bit like this city. You’re a bit betwixt yourself. You’ve got a touch of the spirits inside you. The world’s always gonna look a little different through your eyes.”

I flash to the woman in my dream giving me the kiss of white flame and feel my heart pick up. I don’t want that inside me. I am reminded of the ways people talk about my mother when they don’t want to call her disorder what it is. This feels like that: a soft word for a hard fact.

Izora Jo grabs a large mason jar like the ones I saw outside off a shelf. She takes it to the kitchen and pours some of the liquid into a smaller, clean jar. To that she adds a host of ingredients I don’t recognize—herbs, powders, and what may or may not be animal bones—as well as a few that I do—salt, brandy, and what has to be Tabasco sauce—and all so fast that I can’t keep up. When she seems satisfied, she screws the top on tight, gives it a good shake, and lights a black candle, dripping the wax all around the edges to seal the jar. “You place this under your bed where you sleep, got it? That’ll keep you safe while this mess plays itself out.”

“I don’t understand,” I tell her.

But she ignores me, looking to Mawmaw Barb instead. “This one ain’t for us to meddle with. You hear me, Barbara Mathis? Your boy’s part of it now. Can’t be helped. He sees what she sees because your blood, your salt, is running through his veins. Make him a mojo for protection and leave it at that. No real harm should come to him.”

Mawmaw Barb gives a quick nod of her head and turns on her heels. “Come on, you two. Dinner ain’t gonna cook itself.” She heads for the front door.

Daniel and I traipse behind without a word, but at the front door, I turn and look into Izora Jo’s plump face. “You never said,” I tell her. “You never said if I was in danger.”

“Honey, this is New Orleans,” she says with an easy laugh. “We’re all in danger.”