I FIND what I'm looking for near Kharon's dock, where one of the settlements' of shades is baking gray bread over their open fire. The white meal the ritual calls for—hard, packed flour. And... dark red strawberry jam, thick at certain points and watery at other's like it's clotting. A perfect replacement for raw sheep's blood. At least, I think so.

If it doesn't work out, we can always try again. We have the rest of eternity to get this right.

I return to Dahlia. "Now we can start," I tell her.

She's sitting on her calves, her dirt-stained hands resting on her thighs. "Oh, goodie! What do I do?"

"Pour the mead in," I instruct. "Then the wine, then the water."

She tips the kylikes into the hole, the three liquids seeping into the earth and then coming bubbling out of it, filling the ditch.

"Now the flour," I tell her.

She sprinkles the white meal into the mixture. It hisses and steams back at her. Her face is clouded over, the tendon in her neck popping.

"Now pray."

Her eyebrows curve. She tears her eyes away from the pit to look at me. "I don't know how," she admits.

"Odysseus," I say, "promised Teiresias, the shade he was trying to summon, that he would slaughter his best cow and most beautiful ram in his name, and burn many treasures for him. Offer things to Medusa and Ezra, once you return to the land of the living."

Dahlia closes her eyes. "Medusa," she says, "when my pet snake Malfoy dies of natural causes, I'll bury him in your name. He can join all of the other snakes in your hair if you like, or you can have him as a pet. Also, I'll... try to spread the truth about your story, try to convince the world you weren't a monster. And Ezra... I'll trade rooms with you and Antigone when we get back so that you guys get the room with the view of the ocean. Also, I'll wash the dishes for you for the rest of my life, on God."

"Don't mention the Christian God," I advise her.

"Oh. Oh, Jesus Christ, you're right, I shouldn't—oh, fuck, I did it again. Don't mind me, O great spirits of the afterlife, I'm new to this whole pagan thing." She turns her head to look at me, half-opening one eye. "What now?"

"Add the jam. And then... you're done."

It feels surreal to me, and half-done. Every ritual I've witnessed has been so much more elaborate than this. Is this really supposed to summon the dead? Even the ritual after the penis parade honoring my father had more to it than this.

Dahlia tosses a handful of jam into the pit with a plop.