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hesitate. “We both know I am.”
    â€œYes,” he agreed. “But that doesn’t give you the right to go get yourself killed over a girl you don’t even know.”
    I stared at him in surprise. We weren’t exactly fighting, but this attitude was weird for him. He’d married my mom when I was three and adopted me shortly thereafter. The father-daughter bond burned in both of us, obliterating any longing I might have had for the birth father I’d never known. My mom almost never spoke about him. They’d had some sort of whirlwind romance, I knew, but in the end, he didn’t want to stick it out—not for her, not for me.
    Roland would have done anything for me, kept me away from any harm that he could—except when it came to my job. When he’d realized I could walk worlds and cast out spirits, he’d started training me, and my mother hated him for it. They were the most loving couple I’d ever met, but that choice had nearly broken them apart. They’d stayed together in the end, but she’d never been happy about what I did. Roland, however, saw it as a duty. Destiny, even. I wasn’t like one of those silly people in the movies who could “see dead people” and go crazy from it. I easily could have ignored my abilities. But as far as Roland was concerned, that was a sin. To neglect one’s calling was a waste, especially when it meant others would suffer. So he tried to treat me as objectively as he would any other apprentice, fighting his personal feelings.
    Yet, for some reason now, he wanted to hold me back. Weird. I’d come here for strategy and ended up on the defensive.
    I changed the subject abruptly, telling him about how the keres had known my name. He cut me a look, not wanting to drop the Jasmine topic. My mom’s car pulled in just then, giving me a temporary victory. With a sigh and a look of warning, he told me not to worry about the name. It happened sometimes. His had eventually gotten out too, and little had come of it.
    My mom came into the kitchen, and shamanic business disappeared. Her face—so like mine, down to the shape and high cheekbones—put on a smile as warm as Roland’s. Only hers was tinged with something a little different. She always carried a perpetual concern for me. Sometimes I thought it simply had to do with what I did for a living. Yet, she’d had that worry ever since I was little, like I might disappear on her at any moment. Maybe it was just a mom thing.
    She placed a paper bag on the counter and began putting away groceries. I knew she knew what I was doing there, but she chose to ignore it.
    â€œYou going to stay for dinner?” she asked. “I think you’ve lost weight.”
    â€œShe has not,” said Roland.
    â€œShe’s too skinny,” complained my mom. “Not that I’d mind a little of that.”
    I smiled. My mom looked amazing.
    â€œYou need to eat more,” she continued.
    â€œI eat, like, three candy bars a day. I’m not depriving myself of calories.” I walked over and poked her in the arm. “Watch it, you’re being all momlike. Smart, professional moms aren’t supposed to be that way.”
    She cut me a look. “I’m a therapist. I have to be twice as momlike.”
    In the end, I stayed for dinner. Tim was a great cook, but nothing could ever really replace my mom’s food. While we ate, we talked about their vacation in Idaho. Neither Jasmine nor the keres ever came up.
    When I finally got back home, I found Tim getting ready to go out with a gaggle of giggling girls. He was in full pseudo-Indian regalia, complete with a beaded head wrap and buckskin vest.
    â€œGreetings, Sister Eugenie,” he said, holding up a palm like he was in some sort of Old West movie. “Join us. We’re going to a concert over in Davidson Park, so that we may commune with the Great Spirit’s gift of springtime