Before I go to hell.

I should do something frivolous, I think. Fun. Ride a roller coaster. Eat a ton of rocky road ice cream. Buy something ludicrous on credit. These very well could be my last hours on this earth.

What should I do? What is the thing that, if everything changed, I’d miss the most?

The answer comes to me like a song on the wind.

I’ve got to fly.

It’s stormy at Big Basin. I climb quickly, easily, my nerves giving me even more speed than usual, and take my place on the rock at the top of Buzzards Roost, legs dangling over the edge, staring out across the blue-black tangle of clouds that lies heavy over the valley.

Not good flying conditions. I briefly consider going somewhere else—the Tetons, maybe, crossing there—but I don’t. This is our thinking spot, Mom’s and mine, and so I’ll sit here and think. I’ll try to be at peace with whatever’s going to happen.

I cast back to the day Mom first brought me here, when she broke the news to me that I was an angel-blood. You’re special, she kept saying, and when I laughed at her and called her crazy, denied that I was faster or stronger or smarter than any other perfectly normal teenage girl I knew, she said, So often we only do what we think is expected of us, when we are capable of so much more.

Would she approve of what I’m about to do, the leap I’m about to make? Would she tell me I’m insane to think that I can do this impossible thing? Or, if she were here, would she tell me to be brave? Be brave, my darling. You’re stronger than you think.

I’m going to need to come up with a story to tell Samjeeza, I remind myself. That’s my payment. A story, about Mom.

But what story?

Something that shows my mother at her very best, I think: lively and beautiful and fun, the things Samjeeza most loves about her. It has to be good.

I close my eyes. I think about the home movies we watched in the days before she died, all those moments strung together like a patchwork of memories: Mom wearing a Santa hat on Christmas morning, Mom whooping in the stands at Jeffrey’s first football game, Mom bending to find a round, perfect sand dollar on the beach at Santa Cruz, or that time we went to the Winchester Mystery House on Halloween night and she ended up more creeped out than we were, and we teased her—oh, man, did we tease her—and she laughed and clutched at our arms, Jeffrey on one side and me on the other, and she said, Let’s go home. I want to get in bed and pull the covers up over my head and pretend like there’s nothing scary in the world.

A million memories. Countless smiles and laughs and kisses, the way she told me she loved me all the time, every night before she tucked me into bed. The way she always believed in me, be it for a math test or a ballet recital or figuring out my purpose on this earth.

But that’s not the kind of story Samjeeza will want, is it? Maybe what I give him won’t be good enough. Maybe I’ll tell him, and he’ll laugh the way he does, all mocking, and then he won’t take me to hell after all.

I could fail at this before I even start.

I feel dizzy and open my eyes, wobble unsteadily at the edge of the rock. For the first time in my life, I feel like I’m too high up. I could fall.

I scramble back away from the edge, my heart hammering in my chest.

Whoa. This is too much pressure, I think. I rub my eyes. It’s too much.

A gust of wind hits me, warm and insistent against my face, and my hair picks this moment to slide out of my ponytail and swirl around me, into my eyes. I cough and swipe at it. For all of two seconds I wish I had a pair of scissors. I would hack it all off. Maybe I will, if and when I get back from hell. The new me will need a radical makeover.

I gaze wistfully out at the sky, then catch my breath as I truly look at it. The clouds are all but gone, only a few wisps of white hanging in the distance. The sky is clear. The sun is dropping slowly toward the ocean, glancing off the treetops in a golden blaze.

What happened? I think dazedly. Did I do that? Did I dissipate the storm, somehow? I know that Billy can control the weather, and sometimes things get wonky when she’s feeling emotional, but I never thought that I might be able to do it myself.

I stand up. Whatever the reason, it’s good. I can fly now, even if it’s only for a few minutes. It feels like a gift. I take off my hoodie, stretch my arms up over my head, and prepare to summon my wings.

Just then I hear a rustling below me, then the unmistakable sound of sneakers on rock, the small grunts of exertion as somebody climbs the rock wall. Somebody is coming up.

Bummer. I’ve never seen anyone else here before. It’s a public trail, and anyone can hike it, I suppose, but it’s typically deserted. It’s a difficult climb. I’ve always counted on it being a place I could go to be alone.

Well, I guess flying is out.

Stupid somebody, I think. Find your own thinking spot.

But then the stupid somebody’s hands appear at the edge of the rock, followed by her arms, her face, and it’s not a stupid somebody after all.

It’s my mother.

“Oh, hi,” she says. “I didn’t know there was anybody here.”

She doesn’t know me. Her blue eyes widen when she sees me, but it’s not in recognition. It’s in surprise. She’s never come across anybody else up here, either.

She is beautiful, is my first thought, and younger than I’ve ever seen her. Her hair is curled in a fluffy way that I would have teased her about if I’d seen it in a photograph. She’s wearing light-colored jeans and a blue sweatshirt that slouches off the shoulder in a way that reminds me of this one time when she made me watch Flashdance on cable. She’s a poster girl for the eighties, and she looks so healthy, so flushed with life. It makes an achy lump rise in my throat. I want to throw my arms around her and never let her go.

She glances away uncomfortably. I’m staring.

I close my mouth. “Hi,” I choke out. “How are you? It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?”

She’s looking at my clothes now, my skinny jeans and black tank top, my loose, blowing hair. Her eyes are wary but curious, and she turns and gazes out at the valley with me. “Yes. Beautiful weather.”

I hold out my hand.

“I’m Clara,” I say, the picture of friendliness.

“Maggie,” she replies, taking my hand, shaking without squeezing, and I get a glimpse of what’s going on inside her. She’s irritated. This is her spot. She wanted to be alone.

I smile. “Do you come up here often?”

“This is my thinking spot,” she says, in a tone that subtly informs me that it’s her turn now, and I should be on my way.