The Alchemy of Forever

and driven it over earlier today. Two soggy parking tickets are plastered to the windshield, but I say a prayer of thanks that it hasn’t been towed.
    I bought the dusty old Ford off Craigslist a few weeks earlier. I gave the seller a fake name and paid his price without complaint, though I knew it was high, handing over an envelope filled with cash. I’d been saving money bit by bit for years—ten dollars here, twenty there—small enough amounts that Cyrus would never notice. I didn’t even start saving it consciously—it was more instinctual. One day after buying a coffee I slipped the change into the book I was reading, then told Cyrus the cashier must have shorted me. It gave me a small thrill to disobey him, to finally have something that was mine.
    I reach into the bodice of my dress and unpin the key I’d affixed to my bra strap. In the trunk I find my getaway bag—it holds a change of clothes, Cyrus’s book, and the rest of my emergency money. I’m going to drive down to Big Sur tonight. I want to be among the redwoods and waterfalls when I die.
    I tug on my jeans and sweater, dropping my soiled dress in the trunk and slipping my bruised feet into a pair of sneakers. My hands shake as I slide into the driver’s seat and press the key into the ignition. The throbbing in my temples and the blue hue of my fingers tell me I may not make it to Big Sur. But I have to try.
    The engine starts and I pull out into traffic, heading toward the bridge. I shake my head with disbelief—after six hundred years with Cyrus, I am finally free. I will never again, I promise myself, kill an innocent. I press harder on the accelerator as the car rumbles onto the bridge, leaving San Francisco—and my past—far behind.

six
     
    I drive with the windows wide open, drinking in the world and fresh air while I still have time. The pavement thrums under the wheels, carrying me forward, and I feel a flush of excitement. I know it’s morbid, but death is unexplored territory. Not even Cyrus knows what happens after we die.
    With every mile I put between me and Cyrus, I feel a weight lifting. Even in the rain, California has never looked so beautiful and alive. I glance up at the stars, pinpricks pushing through the clouds, like they might fall into the bay.
    I hope you’re out there, Mother, I think, because I’m coming.
    But my euphoria comes at a high price, quickly sapping my remaining energy. My hands shake on the steering wheel and my vision blurs, turning the oncoming headlights into long yellow ribbons. I barely have enough energy to push the gas pedal. A car honks and swerves around me, and I fear that I’m no longer in charge of my body.
    I let out a little sigh and tighten my grip on the wheel. I had wanted to go all the way to Big Sur, to be deep in the pines, listening to nothing but the cold wind and the hooting of owls on gnarled branches, but I’m fading—fast. I won’t make it to Big Sur. Even if I tried, I would probably get into a car accident and end up killing someone else in the process.
    Oakland, I decide, is as good a place as any to die. The road turns sharply as I begin the descent from Treasure Island toward Oakland, passing a tattered and faded billboard advertising a judgment day that never came. Beyond that, an eerie cluster of shipping-container cranes look out over the Oakland port like ancient guardians of the city.
    I guide the car down Franklin Street, toward Jack London Square. A lone light shines on the loading docks of Second Street, illuminating the small droplets of mist that hang in the night air. I pull over on a side street, holding my head in my hands. The wave of weakness crests, then recedes. Trembling, I pull the key from the ignition, hoist my bag on my shoulder, and set off silently through the gloom. Sidestepping slicks of oil and crumbling potholes, I make my way toward a neon sign that reads SALOON , tucked under a termite-gnawed eave.
    I know my time is short, but still, I’m not going to die sitting in my car. Though our original bodies die a human death, our stolen bodies collapse into dust when we leave them, exhausted from the energy it takes to host a foreign soul. I want my dusty remains to return to nature, not add to the layer of grime in this old Ford.
    I decide to go in and get something to drink. I have to admit I’m scared, and wine will take the edge off my nerves, make me brave, before I chase my destiny into the great beyond.
    Once inside I set my