Once in a while, we pass a middle worlder. None of them stop to talk to us or pay us any attention apart from a furtive glance or two. You see, in the Between, we are invincible and middle worlders know it.

Paheli leads us, as she always does. Her steps are soundless, but the skirt of her dress susurrates as she walks. Widad is wearing belled anklets that chime sweetly with each step, and Daraja’s yellow bangles make their own music. We need no words to announce our presence.

We come to a stop in front of a pale orange door. Every door in the Between is a different color. Paheli’s eyes have a familiar caution in them. A caution that simmers in the depths of all our eyes. We know exactly what kind of monsters hide in dark places and the kind that walk, without fear, out in the open.

Paheli opens the door and steps through. We follow her. The heat greets us like a lover, enveloping us in a tight embrace. Talei beams, luxuriating in the familiar feel of what was once her home. Areum and Etsuko, though, groan their displeasure.

Thus, we arrive in Lautoka, Fiji. You may have heard of Fiji. People speak of it fondly as a holiday destination. Couples who want something more exotic than Hawaii often name it as the place they will honeymoon. Safe in a resort, where the locals are trotted out to perform so their culture becomes a spectacle for those who have money and are willing to part with it.

After all, everyone has to eat.

We are standing in a small alley beside a rather run-down apartment building on the outskirts of Lautoka City. The apartment on the second floor is ours; we bought it through an intermediary ten years ago. The apartment is dusty, and the mismatched furniture looks particularly forlorn. A withered hibiscus plant stands in a sunny corner. The stuffiness in the air tells tales of our neglect.

Areum turns on the air conditioner at the highest setting while Daraja gives her a look and turns it off. She opens the large windows instead, letting the air in.

“There’s no breeze, Dara!” Areum whines, flopping down. Her long hair, currently an electric blue, sticks to her skin, and she picks up a lock, giving it a sinister look. “I think it’s time for a haircut.”

Kamboja, splendidly ignoring her, settles down on the tiled floor. Her hair is shorn short. “I feel every minute of my seventy-five years today.”

“You’re actually seventy-six,” Valentina says, giving her a sweet smile. Kamboja’s glare amuses her, and she giggles merrily.

To be a Wild One means to exist partially in the human world and partially in the middle world while not belonging to either of them. Why? Because we belong wholly to the Between, which is not a world but a pathway.