He lifted it high and brought it down-this time, just outside Kit’s right shoulder.

“Damn me, I missed. I’ll have to try a different target.”

Serenity laughed.

Jerome settled the blade on Kit’s throat. “That ought to do. Cut your fucking too-smart head off.”

Again the shovel came up, again furiously down. Just to the left of him.

Jerome moved so that he was over Kit’s knees, and the shovel touched down on the boy’s crotch. He used a little pressure this time, and Kit cried out in pain.

“Shut up. No one’s going to hear you out here, anyway.”

Kit squeezed his eyes closed, but Jerome did not see this as he negotiated the move of bringing the shovel down and stepping back at the same moment. The shovel was left planted near Kit’s feet.

“Stand up.”

“Yes, sir,” Kit said, tears still falling. He was shaking so violently now, it was almost too difficult to obey this simple order.

“Now, you damned baby, you can start digging.”

“Yes, sir.” He struggled to pull the shovel free.

“You dig in between those four marks.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You know how deep it has to be?”

“No, sir.” Hardly able to breathe now, still he tried to make his muscles work.

“Six feet.”

Kit looked up.

“You look around you, Worm. This is the end of the line. You’re going to dig your own grave. I’m going to bury you right here. And the only choice you have right now depends on how well and how fast you dig, because that’s going to be what decides whether you are buried dead or alive.”

And so he had dug. He had dug and dug and dug, until his hands were as blistered and raw as any galley slave’s, his shoulders and back sore, and his skin and clothing covered with dirt. He dug because he wanted to be dead.

The ground became harder, but he worked and worked at it. He was only a boy, though, and the rim of the hole was barely above the level of his head when the sun began to rise.

Jerome walked up to the edge and said, “Stop.”

He leaned on the shovel, muscles shuddering in fear or exhaustion, he wasn’t sure which.

“Give me the shovel.”

He handed it up.

“Lie down.”

He stood swaying. Jerome kicked his shoulder, easily knocking him over.

A shovelful of dirt landed on him. He found he could not move, could not even bring himself to brush it away.

Go ahead, he thought. Bury me. I don’t care. I don’t care.

Jerome laughed. “Maybe I’ll let you live another day, Worm.”

Kit, too exhausted to crawl out, lay in the bottom of the grave and slept.

As almost always happened when he dreamed the digging dream, at the moment when he fell asleep in the dream, he awakened from it. He did so now in Denver, miles and years away from the events of the dream, but feeling the power of the memories press in on him all the same. He quickly reached for the light, then held on to a small Chinese soapstone carving of a tortoise. A lucky tortoise, he had been told. Before long, he was breathing more steadily.

Sometimes, the dream would last a little longer, and he buried Jerome. In reality, this had not happened. In reality, when the hot sun had awakened him early that afternoon, he was roughly pulled from the grave by Jerome, who told him to wash up, because they were moving that day, and he didn’t want worm dirt all over the car.

There would be more digging in days to come.

He told himself now that he could not rely on omens, on dreams to tell the future. He just barely resisted the impulse to call Meghan. Then he showered, awakened Spooky, and after promising fast food for breakfast and lunch, started for Albuquerque far earlier than he had planned.

Albuquerque, New Mexico

Tuesday, May 20, 2:16 P.M.

“Place it on the counter, please.”

Spooky turned a wide-eyed look of innocence on him. When she saw that her acting skills were unappreciated, she sullenly reached into the pocket of her windbreaker and placed the object she had pilfered on the crowded sales counter.

Spooky calmly met the sales clerk’s startled look of dismay, returning a look that said, Doesn’t everyone shop by placing unpurchased items in their pockets before bringing them to the counter?

It was an unusual shop, but Kit doubted it was quite that unique. Primarily, it sold colorful tiles. But a great many objects of Mexican art were available, too, and it was these that had drawn Kit’s attention to the store. Today it was doing a great business in milagros.

The woman behind the counter had explained that the small, brass, gold, tin, and silver-plated charms were primarily used to petition for miracles. They might be worn as jewelry, or more traditionally, pinned to the robe of a statue of a saint-a Spanish tradition, one that continued in various forms in Central and South America.

Some milagros were body parts-a leg for the healing of one’s leg, for example. But the milagros were of many other shapes, too-for anything for which one prayed for help-houses, animals, fruits, vegetables. There were also saints and praying figures. “And for help with love,” the clerk had said, and handed him a small, silver-plated heart.

Kit, ever aware of the power of charms of any kind, and a strong believer in divine intervention, bought the milagros by handfuls.

While the clerk had been counting up his purchases, Kit kept an eye on Spooky. She was getting rusty, he thought, because he had clearly seen her hand dive into her pocket.

He saw now that the object she had taken was a Day of the Dead figurine, a skeleton dog wearing a saucy, colorful, wide-brimmed hat and a carefully decorated leather shoulder bag. A female dog, then.

“Add that to my purchases, please,” he said to the clerk.

Outside, they walked in silence for a time. She asked for the dog and he gently removed it from the sack and handed it to her.

“Is it Molly?” he asked.

She nodded, not looking at him, studying the figurine. A few minutes later, she tucked it into her jacket. “Thanks for buying it for me,” she said.

“You’re welcome.”

“I’m sorry about the stealing.”

“I know.”

“If we just go to California-just go by ourselves, you and me, I promise I won’t steal anything more. Ever.”

He paused and turned toward her. He decided to face this head-on. “You know me pretty well. Do you think I’m going to abandon you?”

For several moments, she didn’t reply, and he didn’t like the wait much. But he was also glad she didn’t return a flip answer. She gave him a long, searching look, then said, “No.”

“Good. Because I won’t. Not ever. That was why I became your guardian and we spent all that time in court.”

“They let you because you have so much money.”

“You’re changing the subject. And besides, I don’t care why they ‘let me.’ I’m talking about why we went to court. Why did we go to court?”

“Because,” she said, “you’re crazy.”

He said nothing.

She relented. “Because you wanted to be my big brother.”

“Right. So don’t be afraid of my friends. My friends can never be my sister.”

They walked a little farther. She said, “It’s not like you’re really my brother, though.”

“Yes, it is. That’s exactly what it’s like. Genetics aren’t everything-right?”

Despite the warmth of the afternoon, she gave a little shudder. “Right.”

They were almost back to the Suburban now. “By the way, you might want to give up on the stealing anyway,” he said. “I think you’re losing your touch.”

She dropped her head, so that he couldn’t see her face. After a moment, she said, “Maybe you’re right.”

“Good.”

He reached into his jacket pocket and couldn’t find his keys. He patted down his pants pockets, the other pockets of the jacket, then happened to look up to see her clasping both hands over her mouth, stifling laughter.