“I don’t know,” I mumble. “I can’t even make ecto-mist do what I want, and it probably wouldn’t have protected me if I was in your position.”

“Don’t you ever try to use your gift? You have powers and you’re just saying, I don’t get it, oh well. Seems like a waste—no offense.”

“None taken. I guess I’ve just never thought of myself as special or heroic. Just cursed.” And being attuned to a world where people die all the time could never have a positive side.

“I think it’s cool, personally.” River stares with wonder at the lines of my palm, where particles of blue and pink form an abstract art project that radiates wisps of smoky light.

My hands only sparkle like this sometimes. When I first went to see Ms. Josette—to find out how to defeat the demons in my bedroom—that’s when I saw them shine the brightest. She opened my hand and taught me what the patterns could tell me about myself.

This one represents your brain, she said, and traced a finger down a line with an indigo tint. She pointed to the center of my palm, where mist particles undulated in soft pink hues—something I only saw when I looked very closely. This one is your Heart line . . . that’s the way you love. You have such a rich capacity for love that’s just dying to be uncovered. And this one, she said, pointing to the long inlet between my index and thumb, which glowed electric blue. This deep, powerful one here . . . this is your Life line. I’m seeing a long, fruitful, and mighty life.

“If I had that,” River says as she watches my hand, the light reflecting in her dark eyes, “I’d find a way to finally move on.”

She cocks her head, chews on her lip, creases her brows in thought. “You know, when I died, the memory of when Sawyer opened the cabinet took over my life for weeks, maybe months. It felt like eternities. And then one day it didn’t, because I kept thinking, This isn’t it. This can’t be it. There’s no way I’ll ever let this be it. I don’t know how the mist works either, but I know there are parts of this that we must create ourselves, with our minds, our memories, and . . .”

“Our hopes?” I offer.

“Yeah.” She locks eyes with me. “The mist is always reacting to things from our thoughts.”

“So it only has the power to control us when we allow it to.”

Half of a hand appears at the end of River’s wrist, but it vanishes as soon as she looks at it. “We can make things appear. We can make things go away. We can see things as fixed or see them as changeable.”