Imaginary
I stood, touching the memorial, until I was certain more time had passed than the journey had taken the first time, and then twice as long again.
The bench was long and cold. I sat on the same spot where the old me had listened to Joshua share his sad story, waiting for a new plan to fall into place.
Of course. The memorial ritual was just another trick Joshua had for hiding his powers from new people, like having me tell him stories, to make me feel comfortable, stop me from treating him like some kind of horrifying freak. Getting in and out of the Pocket probably depended on his thoughts, like everything else inside it.
I should have guessed.
Even so, when I willed myself to my feet, I made one slow, noncommittal circle around the monument, and then half of another, before
