twenty-two.

I was a child again-thin and scraggly in a pink tank top and a pair of shorts-my eyes red from crying as I stared up at the tall, drooping palm tree that stood like a sentinel in the blistering heat. I felt scared and lost . . . and very, very alone.

I had seen the palm tree then, and here it was now, just as skeletal and bent as I remembered it, waiting for me like a phantom nightmare from my childhood.

The oasis had barely changed. The palm tree was still the sole vegetation, still thin as a whip of licorice or a starving dog. The water was still so clear you could see the sandy bottom magnified in its depths.

And sadly, as I stood there remembering my adolescent impressions of the oasis I'd discovered in h.e.l.l when I was a kid, I realized that, like this place, I, too, hadn't changed much in the intervening years.

I was still thin and scraggly . . . and very much alone.

I wondered if my "friend" Monsieur D was still here, too. Or if he had paid whatever penance he'd owed and was now back on the Wheel of Samsara, fulfilling whatever destiny G.o.d had in store for him.

I trudged forward in the sand, my hand shading my eyes so I could look for signs of habitation.

"h.e.l.lo . . . ?" I called, my voice dying quickly in the stillness of the hot, desert day. There was nothing but silence in return.

"Anybody home?" I said less loudly. Suddenly, from behind the scrawny palm tree, I saw a flash of movement, followed by . . . nothing.

"Monsieur D?"

Two extremely thin fingers-the nail beds caked with dirt and grime and G.o.d knew what else-poked out from behind the palm tree, followed by two more. In one smooth movement, they wrapped themselves around the tree trunk and pulled. The trunk shifted, and a man stepped out. It wasn't Monsieur D.

It can't can't be Monsieur D. be Monsieur D.

The little man I had met at the oasis all those years ago had teeth-granted they were yellowing and completely mismatched, but they were still teeth teeth. This man had nothing but inflamed red gums where teeth should have been.

Like Monsieur D, the man was wearing a dirty, ragged robe, but unlike my "friend," all this man possessed underneath his robe was bone in a translucent skin sheath. Yes, Monsieur D was thin, but not a walking skeleton, not a rag-and-bone man like this one.

Then he turned so I could get a better look at his face, and my heart stopped.

The nose. This man had Monsieur D's beak of a nose.

"Monsieur D," I said, "do you remember me?"

My heart had started pumping again, but now, with every beat, it hurt. It hurt for my lost childhood; it hurt for this beaten man who stood before me in a dirty white robe; it just really, really hurt. hurt.

"I remember," he replied. The high, squeaky voice from my memory was gone, the trace of the French accent I remembered almost nonexistent in the harsh whisper Monsieur D now used to communicate with.

"What happened to you?" I asked. It really was was like I was a kid again, asking every blunt and inappropriate question I could think of. like I was a kid again, asking every blunt and inappropriate question I could think of. What is it that makes a kid behave like the world really What is it that makes a kid behave like the world really does does run on honesty? run on honesty? I wondered. I wondered.

Monsieur D didn't reply. He stared at me with big, sad eyes, all the life drained out of them. This wasn't the same callow, indulgent creature I'd met before. Not by a long shot.

"You look like crud," I found myself saying. Monsieur D smiled, and I almost had to avert my eyes from the ravaged red gums. A strange barking sound came out of the back of his throat, and I realized that he was laughing.

"Sorry, that was rude of me."

Monsieur D was still bark-laughing at me, yellowish tears trailing like raindrops from his eyeb.a.l.l.s to his chin.

"It really wasn't that that funny . . ." I said uncertainly. "Was it?" funny . . ." I said uncertainly. "Was it?"

He shook his head and continued to howl with laughter. I decided to wait for the hysterical mirth to stop before I said anything else-I didn't want to give the man a stroke stroke. Finally, after a few minutes, the laughter subsided, and the gaunt man stopped shaking. For the first time since I'd stumbled upon him again, I could see something resembling happiness in his eyes.

"You're not gonna cry like you did the last time, are you?"

This set him off again, and I had to wait another few minutes for him to compose himself. I couldn't understand what the h.e.l.l was so funny about what I was saying. I mean, I was being blunt, but I wasn't standing on my head and yapping like a dog, was I?

Jeez.

"Okay, enough laughing at me. I know I'm just a total total riot, but please, I need your help, and you laughing at me isn't gonna make that happen." riot, but please, I need your help, and you laughing at me isn't gonna make that happen."

Monsieur D narrowed his eyes malevolently, and I took a step back, glad that he was tied to the palm tree and couldn't get any closer. To make sure, I looked down at his leg, rea.s.sured to see the nylon string was still attached.

"You dare dare ask for my help? After what you did to me?" he croaked, his consonants soft and round in his toothless mouth. ask for my help? After what you did to me?" he croaked, his consonants soft and round in his toothless mouth.

"What did I I do?" I said, my indignation trying to match his anger, but failing. do?" I said, my indignation trying to match his anger, but failing.

"You were supposed to free me, but instead you left me here to rot!" he moaned, then threw himself down in the sand, sobbing.

It turned out that I hadn't asked him such a pointless question after all. We were were gonna have a "crying jag" repeat of the last time. gonna have a "crying jag" repeat of the last time.

As he cried loudly into the sand, his whole body racked with sobs, I started to feel guilty. I mean, I I didn't know what the guy was guilty of-maybe he'd given Zarathustra the clap, or he'd accidentally sold his people into slavery in exchange for three measly shekels. Neither of those things was didn't know what the guy was guilty of-maybe he'd given Zarathustra the clap, or he'd accidentally sold his people into slavery in exchange for three measly shekels. Neither of those things was so so bad, was it? bad, was it?

The man looked like c.r.a.p, he smelled like c.r.a.p, and he obviously blamed me for it. The nice thing would be to give him his stupid cup and be done with it. Besides, the sobbing gave no hint of abating in the near future, and it was starting to make my headache worse.

A voice in the back of my mind tried to remind me that I hadn't given Monsieur D his prize back then for a reason, but I ignored it as my eyes began to scan the ground for the silvery glitter of the cup. I wondered distractedly if anyone else had been lured into Monsieur D's service since I'd been here last. If not, then I had a pretty good idea where the cup would be.

I put all my concentration into finding it, scanning the desert floor until suddenly my eyes alighted on its half-buried body. What was once a gleaming, silvery object of beauty had become an ugly, tarnished brown monster-but it was definitely definitely Monsieur D's cup. Monsieur D's cup.

I walked over to where it lay and gingerly poked at it with my shoe. Given a few more years of neglect, it would've disappeared completely into the sand's embrace. And what the sand steals, it doesn't return.

Remembering the pain I'd felt when I picked it up the first time, I took a moment to think of the best way to touch the thing without turning my brain into a melted orange ice cream Push-Up.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," a voice called behind me.

I was surprised I could hear anything anything over the sound of Monsieur D's sobbing, but then I realized he wasn't crying anymore. Not sure what I was gonna find behind me, I turned around slowly and saw Daniel standing across the water, his shirt wrapped around his head to staunch the flow of blood-the shirt was soaked red with it-cascading down his face. over the sound of Monsieur D's sobbing, but then I realized he wasn't crying anymore. Not sure what I was gonna find behind me, I turned around slowly and saw Daniel standing across the water, his shirt wrapped around his head to staunch the flow of blood-the shirt was soaked red with it-cascading down his face.

"Oh my G.o.d," I said, staring at Daniel's pale face. "What happened happened to you?" to you?"

"You know exactly exactly what happened to me," he said. I heard a low, guttural cackle behind me and trained my gaze over to where Monsieur D was kneeling in the sand, a gleeful, expectant look on his nasty, toothless visage. what happened to me," he said. I heard a low, guttural cackle behind me and trained my gaze over to where Monsieur D was kneeling in the sand, a gleeful, expectant look on his nasty, toothless visage.

Had I really intended to pick up the cup and happily hand it over to that crazy old coot? I had to have been insane-or maybe "spelled" was the more correct theory here-to have even contemplated the idea.

As I stared at his grotesque mask of a face, I knew the latter was true . . . because right at that moment you couldn't have paid paid me to give Monsieur D his beloved little cup. All I felt was disgust for the creature that sat burbling to himself in the sand. me to give Monsieur D his beloved little cup. All I felt was disgust for the creature that sat burbling to himself in the sand.

He was gonna have to turn over a whole new leaf-and I'm talking a full-on My Fair Lady My Fair Lady makeover-before makeover-before I I ever did him any favors. ever did him any favors.

I turned my attention back to Daniel, worried that he was gonna pa.s.s out from sheer blood loss before I found out what I was supposed to have done to him.

"Okay, tell me what I'm accused of now-but you should know ahead of time that I'm not apologizing for something you only think think I did," I said haughtily, trying to pretend that Monsieur D wasn't there, listening to and judging every word I uttered. I did," I said haughtily, trying to pretend that Monsieur D wasn't there, listening to and judging every word I uttered.

Daniel took a step forward, but he lost his footing and ended up falling onto his knees.

"You pulled a switchback," he said through clenched teeth, "and hit me over the head."

"Are you okay?" I asked, ignoring his accusation, trying to focus on his state of being without sounding too defensive.

"You heard me," he coughed, struggling to climb back onto his feet but not succeeding. "You hit me . . . on the back of the head."

"I didn't hit you," I said as I walked around the small pond of water toward him, careful to avoid crossing into Monsieur D's airs.p.a.ce. "I don't even have a baseball bat on me." I gestured with my hands, letting him see they were empty. "See?"

"Then who?" he said as I reached him and grabbed him underneath both armpits.

"Can you stand?"

He nodded as I hoisted him back onto his feet, getting a long smear of blood across the front of my borrowed tank top for all my Good Samaritan efforts.

"Look, I don't know who did this to you, but it wasn't me," I said as he leaned against my shoulder for support. "You saved my life. Why would I hurt you?"

"Because you can-" he said before a great, bellowing cough erupted inside his chest and overwhelmed his ability to finish his sentence.

"That's just plain stupid thinking," I replied. "I don't work that way. Never have and never will."

As the coughing fit subsided, I noted that his breathing was becoming more labored with each pa.s.sing second. I was kinda starting to really worry about him. Jerk or not, I didn't want anything too bad to happen to him on my watch. Then something really, really screwed up occurred to me. It was so terrible that I tried to push it out of my mind, but it wouldn't go.

"You can't die, can you?" I asked in a low whisper. I didn't want Monsieur D to hear what I was saying. G.o.d knew what what would happen if the wretched man tried to involve himself in our problem. would happen if the wretched man tried to involve himself in our problem.

Daniel looked up at me with big blue eyes clouded with unshed tears.

Oh, c.r.a.p, I thought, I thought, don't do it! Don't you say what I think you're going to say! don't do it! Don't you say what I think you're going to say!

"I sold my immortality to the Devil. I'm as human as . . ." He looked over at Monsieur D. "As him."

My mind went blank, and then one word popped out of my mouth.

"s.h.i.t."

This made Daniel laugh, laughter that quickly turned into a dry, hacking cough that was completely devoid of any of its former mirth.

"I think we better get you out of here and to a hospital," I said quickly. "Can you open a wormhole for us?"

Daniel slowly rolled his eyes at me; the extreme loss of blood was making him loopy.

"You do it," he mumbled. "I'm the one who's dying here . . ."

Great, a real comedian, I thought to myself. I thought to myself.

"Uhm, I don't mean to be a pest, but I . . . uh, don't know how don't know how."

Daniel didn't respond. When I looked over, I saw that he'd pa.s.sed out.

"c.r.a.p!" I almost shouted as I took the full weight of the unconscious man against my shoulder-and Daniel was much heavier than a grown man had any right to be.

Across the pond Monsieur D cackled at my expense again.

"Shut up!" I screamed at him. "Don't you see I'm in the middle of a crisis here?"

That only made him cackle harder.

"Stupid toothless Frenchman!" I called from across the water.

"Gormless human-being reject!" Monsieur D yelled back at me.

"Don't make me come over there!" I screamed, almost losing my grip on the unconscious Daniel in the process.

"I dare you to try, wannabe!" he shot back.

I was beginning to feel like I was back in elementary school again where "taunting" ruled.

"Your boyfriend is going to die," Monsieur D said, suddenly calm again . . . if you could ever ever term his harsh lisp of a voice as "calm." term his harsh lisp of a voice as "calm."

I glared at him as I tried to hoist the slowly sliding Daniel back up to a standing position. Finally, tired of fighting a losing battle, I let him go where he wanted-which was into a heap on the sand.

"See what you made me do!" I yelled at the raggedy old man as I poked at Daniel's arm with my shoe.

Monsieur D only snorted at me with disdain as he pulled himself up to a standing position and smiled at me. It was weird, but he seemed taller somehow, less ravaged now.

"Come here," he said finally, raising a skeletal finger and crooking it in my direction.

"Why?" I said, holding my ground. I was hot and stinky and sweaty and miserable. I wasn't going to put all that aside and go trotting over there like a puppy.

"Come here," he intoned.

Without a second thought, I was walking back around the water and right up to where the Frenchman was waiting for me. I hadn't even had time to make my brain tell my feet to stop moving-and I doubt that if there had had been time, my feet would've listened to my brain anyway. been time, my feet would've listened to my brain anyway.

"What?" I said petulantly.

He leered at me, and I leaned as far back as I could to get away from his really really foul-breathed clutches. foul-breathed clutches.

"It heals," he whispered.