It crawls toward her. Eight legs. Hairs on those legs. Bristles that twitch. Eight subhuman eyes watch P.J.—a pair in the middle and three on either side. As it crawls forward it makes a hissing sound, by rubbing its jaws together. Its fangs gleam in the bare-bulb light.

A tarantula! It’s less than three feet from her now.

P.J. twists away from it in horror. “Jack!” she screams. “Save me!”

My proximity to her is heartrending. I can see her clearly. I can almost touch her.

It’s P.J. and not P.J.—she looks exactly the way I remember her, and at the same time she’s changed.

Half a year older. She’s obviously been through pure hell. Hair, which was always carefully cut and styled, now long and uncombed. Sparkling hazel eyes now red and swollen. Face and body thin and haggard, as if she’s been suffering for weeks.

But the vibrancy I loved is still there—the spirit and courage and resolve to live still burn in P.J.’s eyes, even as they widen with fear.

“Jack, please do something!”

I’m so close to her I can feel her breath, but there’s absolutely nothing I can do. I’m just a presence, a shadow, a consciousness without substance.

I have no voice to answer her desperate pleas, no arms to protect her with, no legs to kick away the loathsome creature that slowly circles her.

All I can do is watch.

And I know this is all my fault. P.J.’s connection to me has taken her out of a world of love and safety, to this realm of pain and peril. In a few seconds it will cost her her very life. And I can’t save her—I’m present but utterly powerless, culpable but deprived of any chance to redeem myself.

The first bristles of the goliath tarantula touch P.J.’s bare skin. She cringes. Her terror-stricken eyes are now on a level with the spider’s own. She glimpses its hunger. Understands that it will devour her.

Its head swings forward. Her breast is punctured by the loathsome fangs.

A cry of pain and fear rips from P.J.’s throat. It’s unlike anything I have ever heard …

That cry … I desperately try to answer.

But I’m airborne. Yanked back and away at tremendous speed.

Hurtling through smoke and fire.

Fighting all the time to stay with her. Shouting her name into the swirling miasma. “P.J., I won’t let you die! P.JJJJJJJJJ … .”

Hellfire crackles around me. Yes, I’m in hell. The Devil’s booming voice: “Welcome, Jack.”

No, it’s thunder. And the hellfire is lightning.

Jack! Don’t do it, Jack.

I’m standing up on the edge of the gondola, trying to jump out, shrieking P.J.’s name over and over.