“Helene,” he rasped, “What time is it?
“I don’t know.”
“I’m not up for playing tonight.”
“Me neither. But you need to come with me now.” My voice cracked. I breathed deep and steadied myself. “We need to go.”
“Not tonight.” He rolled over, and when he did he saw his body, unmoved. He jolted. He scampered off the bed and backed into his rickety dresser. His eyes darted toward his body, which lay still on the bed, and his chest heaved.
I’ve ferried people for a long time. My parents settled this land with a hopeful, determined spirit that sent many West. I got lost in a blizzard during my twelfth winter. I couldn’t see my own hand in front of my face, and I couldn’t find my way home. I froze to death forty yards from our front door.
After I died, an Indian boy came for me. I was frightened of him at first, but he was kind. He didn’t ferry me, though. Our different languages caused confusion, but I caught on. He brought me with him on his ferries for weeks. I saw him comfort and shepherd people all over the land. Then one day he hugged me and walked away, and for the first time in weeks, I didn’t feel the pull to follow him.
And then I got my first call.