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knelt at the edge of the clearing and prayed for the dead girl.
    I do not think he knew the young woman. I felt no connection between them, and yet, as he prayed, I was overcome with gratitude that this good man had been the one to find her. For I felt the evil that lingered around her body dissipate as his love for a stranger filled the air around us. I trembled at its power, humbled by my loss of that power, longing to feel it within me even as I understood that I had long ago surrendered my right to it.
    Slowly, as the evil about the girl lifted, twilight descended over her with the gentleness of falling snow.
    Done, the old man struggled to his feet and pulled a cell phone from his pocket. His voice was sad as he explained what he had found to the emergency operator, but his resolve was strong. No, he said firmly, he understood completely. Of course he would not leave until the police arrived.
    He would not leave the poor girl alone.

Chapter 4

    Emergency vehicles gathered in the street below as paramedics and officers hurried up the hill. I moved into the shadows, though I knew they could not see me. I watched as my old partner, Danny, came huffing up the final stretch, his face red from exertion.
    Danny Bonaventura. He had been the last person to see me alive, but I did not remember anything about my death except his face looming over mine. Unlike earlier memories, the final moments of that night remained a mystery. I remembered only that Danny and I had gone to the row house to interrupt a drug buy involving a murder suspect. I remembered that Danny had been tipped at the last minute and we had rushed there without backup, against regulations, hoping to nail a man we knew was responsible for seven deaths. My desire to apprehend him had been real. I was never callous, even in my last, most shameful days. I still clung to the thought that I was one of the good guys. That night, I’d figured I might get lucky and do some good, without a whole lot of effort, maybe even in time to stop off for a drink afterward.
    Instead, I had died. My life had simply—and suddenly—ended. I still did not understand how.
    I’d been drunk, of course, deep in the alcoholic fog of my life, my judgment perpetually impaired and my desire to stay in that fog overwhelming all other priorities. But I was not convinced my drunkenness had been a factor in my death. Why could I not remember?
    I remembered a chilly darkness in the room. I remembered the scuttling of rats across the linoleum floor as they made their way through the garbage that drug users leave behind: stained mattresses scavenged from the streets, old needles, cheap wine bottles, used condoms, candy wrappers. I remembered the smell of the alcove where I waited. It reeked of urine and mold and the whiskey sweat that rose from my skin. I also remembered the whisper of Danny’s voice next to me and his familiar, bourbon-soaked breath. But then I remembered nothing, except for Danny bending over me, his nose swollen from years of drinking, his sparse ginger-colored hair gleaming with sweat and grease. After that, my old life had faded, pulling in like the aperture of a camera closing on a brightly lit scene, leaving no room for details.
    To have lived my life as a drunk was bad enough, but to have died as a drunk as well? What a waste. I had missed even that most pathetic of endings.
    I could remember nothing more until I’d found myself standing, unseen, at the back of a room, observing my own funeral, knowing, somehow, that I was dead. It was a real Tom Sawyer moment, if Tom Sawyer had lived in Hell.
    There was Connie, sitting rigid, her face reflecting her inability to understand what she was truly feeling. Relief, I suspected, just as I suspected that the only real sorrow she might feel was for my sons, who sat on either side of her, solemn and confused.
    As each person who had been tapped for the job of eulogizing my sorry ass rose to remember me, the blatant untruth of their