"My sister went in these pipes," I say. "I want to go after her."

Butterfly looks at me, her eyes blue, though one is a grayish shade lighter than the other. "At the age of 13, some doctors and my parents mixed my imagination with illness and I spent a year in a mental asylum. Now they think I have wisdom. It's made it easy for me to hook up with evil, you know, the advertisers, the commodifiers, the hunters of cool, they try to figure me out, figure out all of us kids, but they're all specializing in channel idents and image. I don't mind whoring myself out as a trend scout, they get it wrong even when I tell them the truth."

She squeezes my hand. "I'll take you. You are a Lucifer kind of devil. Bringer of light and carrier of darkness... Trying too hard to dance."

Sometimes I think we like the abandon. Or we love desire. Deep within her eyes I could tell she was aware of the game, this reality around us we'd created to communicate, but too often everyone sleeps at the controls, passive, like in a movie or a television show.

We leave her room, her with a small pack on her back, stuffed animals hanging on key chains from the zippers, sewn on patches of mushrooms and eyes and Om symbols and an owl, the inked words magic and truth, and a tiny spiral of love. We head further into the building, down a long corridor of steel and flaking drywall, into a big open room, a single curving gray wall with no corners and just covered with names, hundreds of scribbled or painted names.

"Write yours," she says. She's kneeling, her pack before her, and from a pocket she pulls forth a silver marker.

"I gave up my name long ago," I say. "I'm no one."

"Better invent one then, one you can hold onto," she grins as she swirls her 'B's and 'u's and 't's and finally the spiral of 'y'. "It's the only way back."

Something was manufactured here once, it still smells of grease and sweat, though the room is empty of any machinery. There's only old sleeping bags and more kids and a bonfire where they are roasting frogs. We're offered some, and I eat, but they are dingy and listless. On the bite of my third I stop to spit its poor body into my hand, and toss it into the fire. I never like to eat amphibians, they seem to know too well that the world is fragile--they are beautiful and kind, patient, yet are decimated the quickest by pollution and ignorance. The smoke of the bonfire and its sparks, they just go up, into darkness. I see no opening or stars but somehow the smoke must chimney out for the air tastes clear and I have a feeling these frogs are weakened by whatever was here before, not what is here now.

It is usually good to disturb the shaman. I am feeling that Butterfly is like one for these warehouse squatters. They all watch her, rever her with their eyes, their waves of hello and quick jokes. I know I have startled her, and she is trying hard to grasp what I am without letting on that she is wondering.

I tug a half burned stick from the fire, tap the orange coals of its tip on the concrete, scattering heat and sparks, one bright hot piece of wood skittering close to a bare foot of one of the kids, who jumps.

Satisfied, I take my smoking stick to the wall and write, "Lightbringer", accepting the name she's given me.

I leave the saloon. There's only two ways into the pipes beneath the town that I know of, and one collapsed after Aya went in, hours after the last time I saw her. The other way lies beneath a tattoo and piercing parlor that's snuggled inside an abandoned warehouse where several homeless kids like to squat, a place where the Demon Hole carries on its business of intoxication and misdirection, a grungy, dark bar tossing out screeches of guitar, saxophone, upright bass, and harmonica throughout the day. T screams and wails come in Spanish, kind of like Kurt Kobain reincarnated as Ernesto Che.

I swing my arms, twist my torso, enjoying the freedom of fresh life, the vitality, the essence, the clear energy. There's a slight awkwardness to my limbs, newborn-colt symptoms, but even that newness and imprecise physicality is delicious, golden, and almost immortal.

Two boys about 14 loiter on the steps outside the Demon Hole. They are passing a 40-ouncer in a paper bag between them, slow sips, sips meant to lengthen the experience of the beer, which they somehow stole or managed to beg from one of the patrons of the bar. The proprietor rarely lets any of the children in. And especially not these two, who call themselves Search and Escape.

"Heya," I nod, intending to pass them. Primitive Era is the name of the tattoo/piercing parlor and is my destination. 

Escape hops down off the step and clasps my hand.  "I know you," he says. "You can't disappear in the unborn youth and no one see."

"Maybe you know more than you should."  I consider silencing him. But no. Aya never would. These boys, too, might be gods. The potential exists in anyone.

And maybe they can guide me. All these kids play in the pipes, it's a grand game to push in against the invisible urges to stay away, to not enter, and then see how far you can go. To the pool, past the impossible and indefinable engines, beyond the pool. I mention the possibility that I want to play, to go inside the pipes, and their cracked red eyes brighten, and they smile, like they've been waiting their entire short lives for this task.

"You should go inward with Butterfly," Search says.

"Yeah, she's seen the Blue Lady." Escape nods.

They gather around me, close, and looming. They are both bigger. I'm glad I have nothing they would know to take.

"Shh." Search elbows Escape.

 The Blue Lady. I wonder about the name.  It rolls off the tongue.

"Come on," they say, grabbing my arm, tugging. At one of corner of the warehouse they pull wide a rusted, sliding door. Sunlight shines into the building suddenly, making everything white before I acclimate and the tinsel and graffiti illuminates, an entire wall of beasts and young imp-like creatures, big-eyed winged girls, green-skinned beings with octopi tentacles, words in English and Spanish and other languages blended in ink and paint, stretched and distorted, perhaps in a yearning to say something often left unsaid. I can't quite decipher the words as the two boys push me past, into a hallway lit with battery-powered LED lights, past rooms where other kids lie on sheetless mattresses, among scattered glass bottles, mirrors, worn packs, and sugared cereal boxes.

Escape runs ahead, while Search strides with me and sips nonchalantly from his beer.

"Want some?" he asks.

I shake my head.  "I'm good."

"Suit yourself."

"She's here, come on." Escape bounces into our conversation of polite offer and decline, grabbing the beer from Search and swigging, followed by a sleeve wipe of his mouth. "Just up ahead."

A silk hanging or tapestry is on the wall, and a soft opening within the folds beckons.

I pass through, feeling the silk slip along my arms, and whisper upon my face. The passage seems long, like I'm in a tunnel of coiled silk, which opens upon a room with two big windows, a wooden chest in the center of the floor with candles burning on it, and cushions piled against one wall where reclines a beautiful young girl. She's near Aya's size, or Aya as child, but she has silver hair instead of black. I've never seen her before, which is unique. I mean, most of the unusual ones have sought us out or we've found them.  I can tell she moves in a different way, she's has the patience to look at reality sideways.

"I'm Butterfly," she says, her eyes light and friendly, offering me a hug. I lean into her, and she holds the hug, squeezing, and I feel her body, her heart, the beat of her life.  She means this hello. I like her immediately.

"I'm Virid," I say.

"Sit," she says, which we do. Around the pillows and our sitting place copper bowls burn with different metals and powders, the flames aquamarine and blue-silver and bright copper.

Escape crouches, avoiding the cushion of the pillows, but he can't still himself.  One knee bounces, tipping him, and when he shifts his legs it last for only a minute before he has to adjust himself gain.. Search cradles the 40-ouncer beer bottle, to set it aside after an unfulfilled sip when he realizes it is empty. Butterfly watches me, and eyes the other boys, but mostly watches me.  I think she recognizes that I am not truly innocent.

"He wants to enter the pipes," Escape blurts out.

Butterfly blinks, and a fire rises in her eyes, and a curl in her lips.

"Why?" she asks.

A simple question, and one I'd expect from any gatekeepers along the path.  A stare into her eyes, her black irises rimmed with indigo, and consider my answer.