This must be it. The world Ms. Josette told me about, which only reveals itself when it wants to. So . . . if they were here all along, why didn’t they visit me sooner? I could’ve used a little help from the gods before now. Or a lot.

“You don’t want to go out like that—trust me.” Grandpa’s voice is so human it’s almost familiar, and so strong my skin vibrates when he talks. “You want a peaceful passing, so peaceful the demons don’t even notice when you ’bout to be gone.”

Part of me always thought being a good person would protect me from eternal torment. Call it being raised in the church, where Dad dragged us every Sunday growing up.

The reason I never retaliated against Chad, or clapped back at my teachers, or confronted Benji or Mom . . . it’s because I felt like every single thing I did had to be perfect, or else I’d suffer forever once I died.

River must exist as one of these figures now. Someone with better abilities she gained after fighting Sawyer. I hope she got in touch with her mom.

“So . . . if I die here and now, I become like you?”

“You don’t want that . . .”

“But what if I do?” I tour the circle of bodies, inspecting the backs of the warriors in my tribe—their Afros, leather jackets, and bullet belts. Silk linen cape jackets, muskets and sabers and cowboy boots. “No offense, Grandpa, but this seems like a much cooler place to be. Being able to just kick it with my ancestors? Why wouldn’t I want this?”

“Because we don’t just kick it, boy,” he announces in a tone that lets me know, in one swift sentence, that I need to shut up. “You must make a choice, and it is an important one. I can’t tell you how to run your life—you’re a man now. But I would encourage you to continue it so that you have better tools to assist our family moving forward.”

I won’t be able to continue our family, though. Because I don’t like girls. And it’s always been that thing telling me I won’t make it anywhere after I die, except hell.

Dad wanted me to talk like him and do everything just like him.

The Sunday after the magazine incident, when the pastor at his church asked the congregation if anyone needed special prayers, Dad carried me to the pulpit and told the pastor something evil was in my body. I remember his sweaty hand on my forehead, his quavering voice—“Watch over this boy, Lord, your child, Lord, release the evil from his bones, Lord.” The congregation muttered, “Yes, Lord,” “Hallelujah, Jesus,” to pray the gay away.

Falling for another boy didn’t come into the question, because it was out of the question.