Chapter 1

Alma was dying again.

Open the door to the Path. Blessed Salvation is the Path. Show her the light of the Passed. Deliver her to the hands of the Passed. Bestow upon her the peace and joy of the Passed. Show her the Path.

Take her fears.

A strangled voice calling Lenore’s name made her lift her gaze. Their eyes locked. Love, kindness, trust, and something new—a sad, silent begging. Alma spoke. Her lips moved in a cryptic rhythm, but Leonore heard no words, only choking sobs.

A needle flashed. Leonore held her breath. Here was the moment. The door wasn’t open, and the Passed weren’t waiting, but she still wanted Alma to feel the prick of that needle. She couldn’t stand her pain. And perhaps, if Alma were calm, they would show her the Golden Path. Leonore watched. Waited. The needle plunged. But there was no soft, sweet slip into peace.

Alma grimaced, gasped. Her mouth popped open. Her cheeks lit up with streaks of blue-black lightning; her face froze in a rictus of pain. Blood. A river of blood. It poured from Alma’s lips. It followed the light shining into the hallway, creeping toward Leonore’s cold bare feet.

* * *

Open the door to the Path. Blessed Salvation is the Path. Show her the light of the Passed. Deliver her to the hands of the Passed. Bestow upon her peace and joy of the Passed. Show her the Path.

“Damn it, Leonore. It’s 5:00 am!”

She pressed her hands into the tear-soaked mattress, struggling to sit upright, fighting the tangled sheets. Ernest’s shouting hadn’t woken her. Her scream had woken Ernest.

He whipped off the comforter, letting in a rush of icy air, swung his legs from the bed, and stomped off to the bathroom. Anger drifted behind him and settled over Leonore like a cloud. The door slammed, but his presence remained. She wiped at her cheeks in disgust, stared at the moisture on her fingertips, and flopped back onto her pillows. Ernest was losing his patience with her, and she didn't blame him. It was frustrating. Tonight made the third night this week.

The frantic dream prayer echoed through the bedroom. It bounced from corner to corner, haunting Leonore, even after waking. Prayer residue would stalk her all day. It would catch her, too, leaving dirty smudges on her thoughts, oily fingerprints she couldn’t wipe away. She focused on her breath—in, out—counting to five as each inhale squeezed through her tightened throat. Her pounding heart slowed.

Goosebumps popped up on her arms, so she slipped them back under the warmth of the duvet. Ernest had paid off a BlueCollar to jimmy the AC restrictions on the thermostat. He liked it cold so he could pile on the blankets and a heavy down comforter. And as usual, she was sweating beneath the pile. He slept cold. She slept hot.

Leonore pulled a hand free and pressed her palm against her chest. Her heart thudded timidly against it. As the adrenaline leaked away, her eyelids drooped, but she resisted. Her husband would expect an apology, and he deserved one. The man worked so hard. A wife should bring calm into the home, not nightmares and neediness. The door of the bathroom clicked. She shifted onto her side and lifted the edge of the comforter to welcome him back to the warmth of their bed. He’d like that.

It was dark in the room. The velvet curtains her Aunt Sybil bought on the black market and gave them as a wedding gift kept out even the most eager dawn. Leonore stared through the shadows and tried to discern his expression. He climbed into the bed and rolled away but not before she glimpsed his wrinkled forehead. Ernest was frowning.

“You know the New White House has called me for a 7:00 am.”

She did not know, but she wouldn’t tell him that.

“Are you aware it’s now 5:06 am? There’s not a chance I’ll get back to sleep. I need to have a full eight hours before a briefing, Leonore. You know this.”

Leonore murmured an apology and stared at the broad back that filled her vision. His pajamas were the palest-blue cotton with dark-blue stripes. He had two pairs like that. He’d had them since before they were married, and he’d wear them until they had holes. One hundred percent cotton is hard to get, even though he’d been a TenPer before they married. He could ask her to get him new ones, but he wouldn’t. She vowed to get them for him at Christmas.

These dreams were horrible for both of them. Ernest could not understand why she was still dreaming about a domestic nearly ten years after her death. In the beginning, and with a whiff of embarrassment, she’d tried to explain what Alma had meant to her. She’d failed. It made no sense to him. Ernest had grown up with a nanny too. They’d both experienced little else but distracted attention from their parents, but he couldn’t even remember his nanny’s name.

“Why would I?” he’d asked after the first time she’d woken him with her screaming only weeks after the wedding. “She was a BlueCollar.”

Now, she reached out and ran her hand down his back, hoping to feel it soften under her touch. It usually worked. “I’m sorry, sweetie,” she apologized again.

When he’d rolled away, he’d yanked the covers from her and pulled them up to his chin. Now, they muffled his deep sigh. “What can we do to stop this damn dream? It has to stop.”

Leonore considered her options. She could say nothing and go back to sleep. Maybe he’d get some sleep, too, and in the morning, all might be forgiven. Or she could bring up the dreaded question again right now? It would start an argument, guaranteed. But maybe now was the moment he would listen. Because she wasn’t sure she could keep on like this.

She had told Father she was ready for the life of a OnePer’s wife. She knew he had spoiled her by letting her work for so long. But it was so hard. The long days in the ice-cold apartment, watching The Transitions Channel on repeat and searching through the faces of the Passed, just in case, and listening to the murmuring of his conference calls behind the heavy oak door of his office.

Then there was the slow slipping away of all her friends, some intimidated by the famous genius, Ernest Fuller, but most moving on to their twenties life of coming out balls and potential husband dating, all orchestrated carefully by hovering OnePer parents. Of course, at twenty-four, many, like her, had married already—but they all had babies. She hated being around their smug exhaustion and drawn-faced sympathy. No babies after three years? Poor Leonore.

She’d decided to try again. “The thing is, sweetie, I need something to do. These dreams might be the consequence of my overactive analytical brain struggling with a lack of stimulation.”

He huffed. He hated when she talked like that. It was so unladylike.

She bit her tongue to punish herself, but still went on, couldn’t help it. “I’ve told you how hard it’s been for me since I left university. I called Father again today. I asked if I could start at the Elite Center.” She didn’t tell him that Father had immediately asked if Ernest approved. When she’d admitted that he didn’t know she was calling, Father had hung up.

The mattress shifted beneath her as Ernest rolled onto his back. She tipped toward him into the concave center, and he cursed under his breath when her foot kicked his shin. He’d been trying to get a new mattress for over a year now, but even his New White House contacts hadn’t been able to move him up the waiting list. A few weeks ago, she’d offered to ask Father. He hadn’t spoken to her for days.

“We’ve discussed this. We discussed this before we even married. I don’t have time to waste while we wait for you to have a career, Leonore. I told you I wanted a family, and I want to have the energy to play with my son. I’m forty-three years old, darling, and time is running out.”

This was his standard response. And each time he’d said it, she’d rifled through every serious conversation she could remember from when they were “courting.” Back then, she’d been so eager to please both Ernest and Father, who had arranged the match. She remembered they’d discussed the age difference. How could they avoid talking about it? Father had said it was no issue to concern herself with. Her friends had raised eyebrows and her professors had scoffed. But she’d ignored them all. What did it matter if he was twenty years older than she was when they were so well-matched?

Ernest had only been a TenPer then, but he had a high status due to his talent and career. They’d both had strong social scores. They were intellectual peers. They enjoyed spending time together. With this marriage, Ernest would gain OnePer status, and she would gain a strong, protective, husband who would make an excellent father. And, as her brother Christian later informed her with his usual sneer, Father would strengthen his relationship with Ernest’s mentor and employer, Roger Makewell. She’d fulfilled her family duty, and she’d been proud.

Leonore hadn’t thought about children back then. She didn’t think about them much now. She was a good girl. Why didn’t she think about children?

She supposed they’d talked about family, but she only remembered talking about getting back into the center to work with Father. She’d explained to Ernest how she’d messed up before.

Christian had been right to be upset, and Father had been right to send her away to Elite University instead of letting her continue working in the center. Her degree in Women’s Studies had centered her, helped her understand her God-given role in Great America. But she believed she could do both, have children and work, and serve God in multiple ways.

Everything that happened back then was because she’d been young and naïve. Now, she was an educated adult. She wouldn’t make those mistakes again. Of course, the center was Christian’s to inherit, but there was so much she could do to help. Father was on her side, she just needed to step carefully with Christian.

In the beginning, Ernest had seemed to support her desire to go back to working at Father’s Elite Transition Center. She’d explained her ideas for improving the center’s processes that prepared people for transition and their passage to the next life. Ernest had been impressed then, hadn’t he? Walking the Golden Path was a journey to look forward to, not to fear. But sometimes the stress of the unknown would outweigh the pleasurable anticipation. Leonore wanted to change that. Surely, if God had given her this desire, she’d be doing God’s work.

“But I could still work while we’re trying, sweetie. Who knows how long it will take?”

Ernest pulled himself from beneath the covers, and the bedside lamp came on in a flash of blinding glare.

“What are you saying?” He didn’t look at her. “I’ve seen someone. There’s nothing wrong with me. Have you seen a doctor? Did he tell you something I should know?”

She’d pushed too hard. She sat up next to him and reached out to rub his arm.

"Ernest, of course, there's nothing wrong with you. For goodness' sake, you're a prime specimen." She ignored his questions and plowed on. "I only mean that even if I got pregnant today, I'd still have nine months to work. Think of what I could achieve in nine months?"

He turned to her and probed her gaze. Would he see her nerves? No, he never looked that hard. He dropped his gaze and lifted his hand to finger her lacy nightgown. It was a tiny silk teddy he’d given her at Christmas–expensive, risqué, and difficult to acquire. More than once, she’d emerged from a steamy bathroom to find it spread across her pillow; so delicate, and yet so demanding. It was the only gift he’d given her that first year.

He smiled and pulled her onto his lap. His hand slipped across her thigh and under the nightie. He rested it heavily on her bare hip and kissed the top of her shoulder. Leonore turned and cupped a hand around his bearded chin and lifted it until their eyes met. His forehead was unlined, his eyes soft with forgiveness.

Sometimes she still couldn’t believe she was married to Ernest Fuller. He was the most important journalist of the mid-twenty-first century and a protege to Roger Makewell. And Makewell had the ear of the president of Great America, with, perhaps, even more influence than Father had. Not only was Ernest revered, envied, and sometimes feared, he was also the most handsome man she’d ever laid eyes on.

Perhaps it was indecent, but she was grateful for her physical attraction to him. It was their easy intimacy they often turned to when it seemed they had little else to glue them together. At least there was one area in which she could be a good wife. She ran her fingers through his dark, curly hair, smoothed down his salt and pepper sideburns, trailed her hand down his neck, and slipped it inside the collar of his pajamas. Her fingers twisted at the patches of hair on his broad chest. His eyes—a clear, bright hazel beneath heavy brows—crinkled deeper into a smile.

“I know exactly what you would try to do in nine months, and you would make yourself ill with it, which is why this is a terrible idea, Leonore. When you get pregnant, I want you concentrating on our child. And the sooner all the children are born, the sooner you’ll be able to get back to work. That’s what we decided.”

She stifled her disappointment, because what was she thinking? Ernest was right. It was her duty to have children, and it wasn’t practical to wait. They needed to keep trying. She conjured a reassuring smile.

“You’re right, Ernest. And I shouldn’t have kept talking after waking you up so horribly. Go back to sleep.”

“My darling, don’t worry,” he pressed his thumbs into the corners of her mouth, pushing her lips forward into a mini-pout, and leaned in to kiss her. “I know you must be concerned about how long it’s taking, which is why you still bring up this working nonsense. But it will happen. You’ll be pregnant before you know it, and we’ll have perfect offspring. And we’ll find a wonderful nanny—as wonderful as your Alma. And then, later on, we can talk further about your work.”

She slipped off his lap and moved to slide under the covers, but he caught her wrist. “Listen, Leonore.” He reached for her other hand and gave them both a squeeze. “I’ll bring you to the briefing tomorrow. How about that? I’ll call Roger on the walk in and get you a pass. You can have bragging rights. Do you know how many people would kill to have access to the briefing? For one day, you’ll be one of The Five.”