“Bret wouldn’t have hurt me,” she repeats.

“He would have,” I mutter, thinking of Mama. She said the same thing about my stepfather. He may not always act good, but he’s a good man.

“How do you know? Who are you, anyway? Why is it any business of yours?”

I forget that though I’ve known her since she was an infant, I’m still a stranger to her. This is frightfully awkward. “It’s obvious you need some looking after, if you consider that young man to be a friend.”

She sighs and scans the yard. “It was a mistake coming here. I’ve got to go.”

“Allow me to escort you home,” I offer.

She gives me a sour look. “You could be a serial killer for all I know. I can take care of myself.”

“Oh?” I say, pointing a thumb toward the cabana.

“At least I know Bret.” She studies me. Curse that Harmon for not having suitable attire for me; it puts me at quite the disadvantage. “Are you from the museum or something?”

“No. I’m not from around here.”

“Obviously.” We both turn toward a commotion as someone dives into the pool across the yard, splashing several young ladies, who shriek and scream. Julia turns back to me, her face forlorn, and takes a step backward, toward the gate. “Really, thanks. But no thanks. I’m tired. I’d better be going home.”

I’m not human enough yet to have lost my sense of her needs. She’s so riled up by adrenaline that she’s nowhere near sleep. Still, I don’t think she would be happy if I told her that. “Sleep is very important,” I agree.

She lets out another short laugh. “Are you sure you’re not conspiring with my mom?”

“I do not understand what you are suggesting.”

She mutters, “Sometimes I think she’s not from this planet, either,” and turns away from me. She unlocks the latch on the gate, pushes it open, and slips beyond.

It’s impossible simply to turn away, to forget someone whose life I have valued more than my own for sixteen years. Since I am the one who didn’t believe Mr. Colburn when he said she was in danger, the least I can do is make sure his beloved is returned safely to her bedroom. So I follow at a distance as she hurries down the street, her hands in the pockets of her jacket.

Several blocks pass. I tread softly in the grass, and she never turns to look back at me, so at first I think that she doesn’t know I’m there. Then, in a streetlight, she stops. She doesn’t turn around, just shouts out at the night sky, “Could you please leave me alone?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you,” I say, walking toward her.

She whirls around, her face blank.

“I want to make sure you return safely home,” I explain. “Where I am from, a gentleman never lets a lady walk alone at night.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Gentleman?”

I catch my breath. Is that an obscure word these days? “Ye-es.”

“Well, I’m almost home,” she says. I know it’s a lie, as I could find her house in a blizzard. Sandmen have a strong tie to the homes of their charges; I feel comfort and security, as from a familiar blanket, whenever I’m near one. I don’t feel it at all now, and I doubt it is because I’m becoming more human, because I felt it strongly only last night.

I can’t very well tell her that, so I say, “I see,” and let her continue. I follow, as before.

A few blocks later, she whirls around again. I see a small light in her hand; it’s her portable telephone. “I have my cell. Nine-one-one is being dialed as we speak.”

“Nine-one-one?” I wonder aloud. Is that a new way of referring to the telephone?

She sticks out her chin. “I am calling the police,” she answers, her face saying, Perhaps you’ve heard of them?

I hold up my hands. “Oh, no. Please. No need. I’m simply returning to my home as well.”

“Where do you live?”

“Hart Avenue,” I say. It’s not necessarily the truth but it’s not a lie, either. And though I’ve been there only once, I am nearly sure that Hart is in this direction.

“Oh.” She continues on, silent, this time faster. She’s quite athletic and jogging at a steady pace, so I find it difficult to keep up. My muscles ache; they haven’t been tested in such a way in a hundred years. Ten minutes pass. I huff like a locomotive, wondering if I will survive the next few blocks to her home. Then, just when I’m certain she’ll run into her house and shut the door without another word to me, oblivious to my panting and dying on her front lawn, she calls back, “What’s with the strange clothes?”

I smile through my labored breath, pleased to be making progress. “Where I’m from, you’d be the one dressed strangely.”

Thank goodness, she slows a bit. “And what planet is that, again?”

“Er. Canada.”

“Canada?” she asks, her brow wrinkling. “Are you here visiting someone?”

“No, I have … relocated here,” I say. “If you can suggest a place of employment, I’m looking for work.”

“What kind of work can you do?”

“My previous job was at a textile mill. I was a picker.”

“A picker? What’s that?” she calls back. Then, without waiting for a response, she says, “You can work in the mall. They’re always hiring.”

“The … mall?”

She stops, turns toward me. “Don’t they have malls in Canada?”

I hope she can’t see how breathless and weak I am from this distance. I shake my head.

She shrugs. “Interesting.” Then she turns back again, and I resume my chase. Finally, at the walk beside her house, she points, as if I don’t have every last shingle and blade of grass outside it memorized. “This is me.”

I nod, and just in time, because when she turns back to me, I feel a twinge. Looking down, I can barely see my hands. My body was twitching and aching so much from the exertion that I didn’t realize I was already beginning to fade. Luckily, it’s too dark for her to notice anything, or else I’m sure her screams would have woken half the neighborhood by now. “Good night, Julia,” I say quickly. “Sleep well.”

She gives me a quick nod and hurries inside. A few minutes later, light floods her bedroom window. I wait a few moments, until I’ve completely faded, then scale the tree. Mr. Colburn is there, at his post, chewing on his lip, watching her. He sees me coming up and offers a hand to hoist me to a nearby branch. “And?” he asks.

I nod. “You were right. About that friend of yours.”

“What?” His voice is ragged. “Did he hurt her?”

“No. But he might have, had I gotten there a moment later.” He’s standing up, getting ready to climb down the tree. “Where are you going?”

“To his house. I’m going to put him to sleep. Forever.”

I grab him by the sleeve of his tuxedo jacket. “You’ll do no such thing. You will surely go to the Last Place.”

“But see? I told you he was no good for her. So you let her know? About me?”

“No,” I say. He whips his head around and focuses on me, jaw tightening. I can tell he doesn’t know how to deal with disappointment; he’s used to getting his way. “I delivered the message. But she has already been through quite an ordeal. I didn’t see how telling her of you would improve things.”

“You don’t get it. It will,” he says. “She needs to know I’m there for her.”

Despite his being correct about Mr. Anderson, it’s still obvious that this is more about helping himself and less about helping Julia. She doesn’t need to know of his existence as much as he wants her to. “You actually believe that her knowing you’re there will make her feel safer?”

“Yeah. You don’t?”

“Well, certainly,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “She’ll probably check herself into an insane asylum because she’s hearing the voice of her dead boyfriend. I suppose she’ll be very safe there.”

He threads a small twig from the tree through his fist, pulling off all the leaves. “You don’t know her like I do.”

That is true, I think. I know her much better. “Mr. Colburn, things between you and Julia will never be the same again, even if you could let her know you’re watching her. I am sure you are not so selfish as to put your own vanity ahead of the happiness of others.”