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almost everyone who was here back then has since passed through.
    These days, I spend most of my time alone, gazing down at my angel, and relishing memories of the two of us together. The way he smells, like musk and vanilla, the way he held me when we danced.
    I’m more comfortable having a lower profile. People come and leave every day, and it’s not as though I waltz around introducing myself as an ex–vampire princess.

IT’S AFTER TEN O’CLOCK . No sign of Quince. I don’t hear her moving around upstairs.
    She and Mitch became pals in middle school. It was after her parents died in that car accident. He’d fall in step with her on the way to school.
    She balked at first. Not because he was homeless. Or because his mind didn’t work like most people’s. She’d withdrawn from all of her friends except me. Mitch didn’t give up, though. Or maybe he didn’t realize she wanted to be alone.
    This fall, when Quince found out Mitch was a vampire, she started supplying him with porcine blood. Over time, Zach began counseling Mitch, too.
    The angel has retreated to his futon in the attic. Freddy isn’t home yet. Nora already went to bed. I knock lightly on Quince’s door.
    She asks, “What took you so long?”
    I inch the door open. She’s sitting cross-legged in the dark on her calico-print bedspread. “Should I have come up sooner?”
    “I want to show you something.” Quince moves off the bed. She reaches under it for a piece of torn cardboard that reads:

    Mitch was famous for his signs.
    “When I saw this, I laughed out loud for the first time since Mama and Daddy’s funeral. You know, Mitch helped convince me to give the world another chance.”
    “Like Zach did,” I say, “after you became undead.”
    That sounded more pointed out loud than it had in my head.
    Quince stares at Mitch’s sign for a long moment. Then she stores it in the chest at the foot of her bed. “You’re right.” She reaches for my hand. “About Mitch, I’m not being a baby. I’m not mad at Zachary. I know he had no choice.”
    “Nobody thinks you’re being a baby,” I reply. “Least of all me.”

GUEST SUITES ARE ARRANGED like those at an atrium hotel. Each has one window that looks out to the heavens and another that opens to a tiered walkway above the nearest promenade and lobby lounge. Otherwise, the décor has been personalized.
    When I arrived, mine featured framed theater posters — for Chicago, Grease, Macbeth — and shelves of fantasy novels. It’s not like any room I’ve lived in before, yet it’s exactly what I would select for myself now.
    My understanding is that the respective guardians usually coordinate with interior designers, based on their knowledge of their assignments. Since Zachary was earthbound, his best friend, the guardian Joshua, stepped in for my job. The multicolor feathered boas hanging from the coatrack? Definitely Joshua’s influence.
    We ascended souls don’t have to sleep, but sitting cushions are provided for those who choose to meditate. I toss one onto my window seat next to where, a couple of days ago, I put my gerbil’s tank so he’d have a view of the moons and stars.
    At the moment, he’s more interested in the tiny black-and-blue butterfly climbing up the glass. “Mr. Nesbit, now that you’re here, the place feels more like home.”
    I don’t know if every animal ascends or if only pets do because that’s in keeping with the promise of heaven. Are the koi, the birds and butterflies, born in heaven or earth?
    I don’t know a lot of things. I’ve hardly explored the Penultimate beyond my neighborhood. I’ve heard that other areas are more in keeping with other cultural and religious expectations, though my local population is clearly diverse in terms of heritage, dress, faith, and fandoms. The African-Canadian gentleman living next door, for example, dresses like a Star Trek officer, and his was one of the three picture windows on our floor last month to feature a