He’d launched a canoe. Joe realized. And now he was paddling off into the next turn of his wheel.

He waited a moment, then set off in the direction Minisino had taken. When he came to the place where water met land, he still couldn’t see either. But he did see the bow of a second canoe.

This one was his, he supposed.

He touched the rough cedar of its side, but he didn’t launch the craft. He had no intention of stepping on any new wheel just yet. That mystery could wait. He had unfinished business with the living. He wasn’t sure if he could interact with them—some spirits could, some couldn’t—but he had to at least see them one more time. Cassie and Jilly. Jack. Honey.

He turned and retraced his steps through the mist. Twenty paces later, he stepped in water and only just stopped himself from losing his balance and falling in.

Maybe this was an island. Except . . .

He reached forward and there it was. The bow of a canoe. It was either the same one he’d just left behind, or so similar it might as well be.

He turned and set off a third time, and again after twenty paces or so, he was stopped by water and found a cedar canoe.

Interesting.

If there was one thing Joe had a knack for, it was finding things. His sense of direction—whether in the world Raven had made or the otherworlds—was uncanny. It was like he had a compass hardwired into his brain. He never got lost.

But here . . .

He smiled. Well, life was complicated. Why should death be any different?

He looked through the mist, over the water. There was nothing to see. No sound came to him except for the water. Lapping against the shore by his feet. Washing softly against the end of the canoe that was in the water.

He backed off a few steps and sat cross-legged on the ground. Taking out his tobacco pouch, he rolled himself a cigarette. He tossed a pinch of tobacco to each of the four directions, then lit the cigarette and repeated the offerings with the smoke.

Half-breed, the buffalo war chief had called him. Like it was an insult.

Funny how some people took this idea of racial purity so seriously. Like everybody’s spirit wasn’t pulled out of that same pot of Raven’s, back in the long ago. No matter how different people looked—cousin, human, fairy—inside they were all the same. It was only what you did with the spirit that made a difference.

Big heart or sour twist.

Generous spirit or miser.

You had a choice.

But you had to make that choice, or the circumstances around you would make it for you. People would decide for you.