“You know who that is,” Chance said. “Look closer.”

The figure hunched on the ground, back curved into a hump, feet curled beneath a blanket, a rebozo draped over head and shoulders. A woman. She held a pot in her hands, no, a bowl. A red clay bowl. Calliope was shaking violently now. She whispered, “But how? Am I dreaming? Hallucinating?” Chance held Calliope’s arm, led her toward the woman on the floor. Louder, Calliope said, “What is this, Chance? What are you doing?” She pushed against his hand, stuck her feet in place. The flashlight wobbled.

When the woman looked up, Calliope was staring into her bisabuela’s face. Wrinkled in old age, gray hair wisped from beneath the dark rebozo covering her head, her honey-brown eyes the same as they’d always been, flickering firelight-gold as she spun stories for Calliope. The earliest stories Calliope could remember, her first memories, had come from Bisabuela.

Mija, mi vida. Her voice, sandpaper and moth wings, fluttered inside Calliope, prickling her senses like chile verde on the comal, roasting on the fire. No tengas miedo. Y no te preocupes. Está bien. Soy yo.

Calliope sealed her eyes tightly. Breathed in deeply, out again. Opened her eyes. Her bisabuela was still on the ground, the taupe lines of her face roping together into a soft smile, her eyes glimmering. The rebozo wrapped around her, colorful flowers woven into its hem. Calliope recognized it from childhood. Bisabuela had draped it around Calliope on cold nights, told her stories more than bedtime tales but truths, she had said. Just because something isn’t written down doesn’t mean it’s not true. Calliope had shivered beneath the rebozo, and Bisabuela had lit a fire in the round adobe fireplace, made her Mexican hot chocolate, crushed the spicy granules with a mortar and pestle, stirred the grainy powder into a pot of milk and sugar. Calliope had loved her more than anyone.

“We’re dead then? I’m dead?” She turned to Chance, the bile burning her throat, tears stinging her eyes.

Her bisabuela’s voice—No, mija, no estás muerta. Estás perdida.

“Lost? Lost souls? We’re in purgatory? Bisabuela, I’m so scared.”

Ven aquí, mija.

Chance unclasped Calliope’s arm, and she stepped cautiously toward the woman, still not believing what she was seeing. She wiped her tears on her arm then kneeled in front of her great-grandmother. “Tell me what to do, Bisabuela. I have to find my boy. Andres y Mamá también. Are they here too? Are they dead too?”

You’re not dead, Calliope, I’ve told you. Estás perdida, pero hay otro camino. Una luz.

“A light? Like that flash? What was that, Bisabuela? Did it take them?”

Ay, mi vida. Por eso estás aquí. Entiendes?