Chris Jensen sat alone in the apartment as late afternoon shadows slowly climbed his brother's wall. A pile of unpaid bills and personal papers lay spread out on the desk before him, the paper trail of a man's life, thirty-three years of living neatly compacted into three manila envelopes and two shoe boxes.

Chris rubbed his aching eyes, stifling a yawn before finally giving in to it. He felt numb, disconnected from himself. Four days without any real sleep will do that to you. He pushed back from the desk, stretching his back, wondering if there was anything still edible in the fridge. Three steps took him across the small room to the kitchenette where he rummaged through food Kevin would never eat. It seemed there wasn't a single category of junk his brother didn't stock; cupcakes, chips, pretzels, ice cream, beer - it was all there in quantity. What wasn't there was a single trace of fruits, vegetables, or meat, excluding some unwholesome looking jerky that might have been meat once.

"This stuff's gonna kill you, Kev," he laughed before catching himself.

Suddenly deflated, he drooped against the counter. Dead. His little brother was dead. It hadn't really struck him till now. He'd been too distracted with all the details, all the arrangements, to really let it soak in. But now, standing in this gloomy apartment staring into Kevin's fridge, everything snapped into sharp, painful focus. He was gone, really gone, not on vacation in some exotic locale, soon to return with a camera full of pictures and a head full of wild stories about the things he'd seen, the things he'd done. Life is full of surprises, Kevin used to say. You take what comes at you and make the best of it. Heck of a surprise this was.

His appetite gone, Chris closed the fridge and collapsed at the desk, trying to focus on the task at hand. There were insurance policies to look into, a few remaining bills to be paid, friends to notify, property to dispose of.

Property. What a laugh. Kevin's 'property' consisted of a few pieces of second hand furniture, a flat screen TV, some dated clothing, and books, lots and lots of books. The man devoured books - they were his drugs, his Crack, his Meth. He hungered for words and ideas with fevered intensity. Reading was his one great, insatiable addiction. The meager money he earned as a freelancer never went for the luxuries of life, sometimes not even for the necessities. It all went for books. If a man's happiness could be gauged by the number of books he owned, then Kevin Jensen had been a happy man.

Chris wandered idly through the tiny apartment with its overflowing bookshelves, thumbing through dusty volumes on politics, magic, religion, philosophy, ancient history, art, you name it. Kevin always was the intellectual, while Chris had a more practical, businesslike approach to life. Two brothers more different could never be found, nor two brothers who loved each other more.

What was he supposed to do with all this? He'd toss the food, he guessed, and pay someone to haul the furniture to Good Will, which was where it probably came from anyway. He would keep some of the books as mementos and the rest could go to the library's annual sale.

Thoroughly depressed at the thought of liquidating his brother's life, he flopped on the couch, sending dust motes swirling through the darkening apartment. He breathed in deep, feeling his brother in this room, sensing his presence like a persistent shadow. That made it easier somehow, to imagine his brother here, now, in his favorite of all places, at home with his books and ideas.

That's when he saw it; an envelope taped to the bedroom door. He hadn't gone in there yet; that's where the landlord had found him, lying in bed for who-knows-how-long. At least it had been peaceful, painless. He just went to sleep and never woke up. Not a bad way to go, Chris figured.

The envelope was plain white with Chris's name across it in Kevin's barely legible scrawl. Inside were five pages of ruled paper covered with more chicken scratches.

"Chris," the letter began. "I am taping this to my bedroom door so you'll be the first to see it. If anything happens to me I know you'll be the first here. If you're reading this then it's safe to assume something has happened to me."

Chris swore softly. Kevin had died over a week ago when Chris was in San Francisco on business. He'd rushed back to Denver on the first flight he could get, but he'd gone straight to the hospital and Kevin was already in the morgue by the time he got there. He hadn't felt up to coming to the apartment till today.

"What I'm going to tell you is going to be a little hard to believe. Actually, I hardly believe it myself," Chris read on. "But maybe a little back story will clear things up. I had a freelance assignment for the National Skeptic - you know, that online mag, I've done some stuff for them before. The assignment was to debunk Astral Projection, spirit travel, you know, so called 'out of body experiences'. My angle was to expose its practitioners as charlatans. But you know me, I like get my hands dirty in the field, so rather than just listening to stories from crazies and weirdos, I wanted to find someone who could prove they could do it. I came up with a couple tests and I even got my editor to put up five grand as prize money to the first person to pass them. We both figured his money was safe.

"Well," the letter went on, "I started by immersing myself in the local psychic scene. Denver has a lot of strange stuff lurking just under the surface of acceptable society, so I didn't have to dig too deep to find plenty of people willing to talk about this stuff. Not surprisingly, though, no one would take me up on my challenge. Oh, they all claimed they could do things, they just didn't want to demean themselves or their art by accepting filthy lucre for passing a scientifically designed test.

"Not one psychic would rise to the challenge, and I was beginning to think my story was doomed. But there was this one guy everybody talked about. He was a true master, they said, but was down on his luck, living on the street, and might be willing to compromise his principles for some cold cash. So I hunted down this guy, Henry James, which was no simple feat; all I had was a name and the location of his last known whereabouts, the Denver Rescue Mission. Seems when the weather turns nasty old Henry likes to hang around there for a hot meal and the chance of a warm bed.

"I haunted the shelter for days, getting to know the staff and some of their unfortunate clients. It's a whole different world down there, brother, one most of us like to pretend doesn't exist.

"I let it be known to any and all I was looking for one Henry James, that I had some money for him from his dead brother's estate. I know what you're thinking, not exactly ethical, but I was desperate to find this guy. I even slipped a few twenties to some of the regulars on the promise they'd let me know when old Henry showed.

"Anyway, after that first really good cold snap we had I got a call from a volunteer at the mission saying old Henry was there and he'd agreed to see me. I high-tailed it down there and was directed to this shriveled up little guy sitting at a table all by himself in the back of the dining hall. As I approached he lit up like I was a long lost war buddy.

"'Mr James,' I said, extending my hand. 'I'm Kevin Jensen.' The old man's hand was warm and tingly, almost electric. His smile a was gap-toothed and full of humor.

"'Hear you been looking for me', he chuckled. 'About my dead brother. Got no brother, but you know that.'

"'Yes, sir', I apologized. 'But I do have some money for you.'

"I explained my quest and my lack of success so far and asked if he would be willing to demonstrate his ability in exchange for an ample reward.

"'Demonstration,' he scoffed. 'I don't demonstrate. You want to know something's real the only way's to do it yourself. You give me the cash and I'll teach you to do it for yourself. Then you'll know it's real or not.'

"That wasn't what I'd expected but I decided to give the old boy a try. What did I have to lose, except my 'by-line' if I didn't come up with a story? We made a deal, a hundred per session, the balance due when I successfully projected my spirit from my body.

"I rented a room in a dive out on East Colfax where you can get rooms by the hour. The guy behind the counter eyed me curiously when he saw my companion but took my cash without questions.

"Our first session looked like it was going to be a bust. Old Henry had me stretch out on the bed, close my eyes and try to 'cleanse my mind' and 'find the center of my being', which sounded like a load of New Age horse apples to me, which is probably why things went so badly. Plus I have to admit it was a little weird, me lying there on the bed of a scummy motel with a strange little man hovering over me. Not exactly conducive to mental relaxation.

"The old man sensed my apprehension and assured me he was a teacher, not a pervert. 'Besides,' he said with a wink. 'I could do better'n you.'

"I laughed, gave him his payment and asked him to meet him in the same room the next day. I made arrangements with the proprietor to have the room every day for the next month. 'Whatever floats your boat, pal,' he sneered.

"My initial fears and apprehension faded over the course of a week and by the end of the second week I was convinced I was on to something big. I still didn't buy into the whole idea of spirit travel but I had to admit I was feeling great. I felt strong, energized, confident. And I was actually beginning to feel a certain sense of inner peace. My life has been a mess, Chris. You of all people know that. I've done some pretty stupid, crazy stuff all in the search of some elusive thing called Happiness which always seemed just out of reach. But the mental conditioning he put me through, the exercises he had me do, they brought me a sense of well being, a centered-ness I'd never experienced before and pretty soon I didn't even care if I ever wrote my story. I was just happy being me.

"But on our last day together old Henry tells me I'm ready, that it's time. He said I was the best student he'd ever had, a real quick learner, and that he'd taught me all there was to know. One last secret and I'd be able to leave my body. He explained to me in precise detail what I was to do and how I was to do it.

"'You'll have to be naked,' he said. And I'm thinking: great, so this guy's a perv after all.

"But once again he seemed to read my thoughts. 'Don't worry, pal, I'm leaving. Got no interest in your family jewels or lack thereof.'

"So I gave him his money and locked the door behind him. I'm sorry to admit it, but I slipped a chair under the handle just to be safe. I felt more than a little creeped out lying there in the buff on that filthy bed, but after a few cleansing exercises my mind was clear and I focused on the new technique he'd just taught me. I'm not going to commit the process to paper, Chris. Maybe some day I'll teach you, but for now accept my word when I tell you it worked. I left my body! One minute I was lying naked on the bed and the next I was hovering around the ceiling looking down on some pasty-skinned naked guy. What a shock when I realized it was me! I was looking down at myself from about six feet up! Well, I was so freaked out it broke my concentration and my 'spirit', if you'll allow me to use that term, snapped back into my body with such sickening force I could barely breathe. The pain was absolutely the worse thing I could ever have imagined!

"When I finally stumbled from the room old Henry was waiting for me. When I told him what happened he just laughed. 'Beginner's mistake,' he said. 'Everybody does it first time. But just the same, everybody has to experience it. This is no game, boy. This is real, and real can hurt.'

"He assured me it would never happen again because now I was ready for it. I thanked the old man and paid him the rest of the five-thousand. He'd earned it!

"'Be careful, though,' he said in parting. 'You're a kid with a new BB gun: Make sure you don't shoot your eye out.'

"That was the last time I saw him. Word on the street is he's moved on, and I haven't been able to find a trace of him.

"I have to admit I didn't think too much about his warning. After all, what could go wrong? Plenty, as it turns out, but not at first. At first it was wonderful, exhilarating. I did it as often as I could, even turning down assignments so I could stay home and project myself to the corners of the earth. Paris! Madrid! London, Moscow, Baghdad, Hong Kong! I've seen them all, Chris, without ever leaving the safety of my own bed.

"I know what you're thinking, but I'm not crazy! Here's a little proof for you. November eleventh, three weeks ago. You came home from work at exactly five thirty-two according to your kitchen clock. You had macaroni and cheese, a beer and half a bag of Doritos. You read for awhile but seemed to have trouble concentrating so you turned on the tube, watched 'Dirty Jobs' on the Discovery Chanel till ten. You watched the news until after the weather. You still fancy the weather lady, don't you, you little weather groupie, you. After that you went to the bathroom (don't worry, I didn't watch), then you crawled into bed. Your alarm clock read exactly ten thirty-seven when the lights went out.

"So how do I know all this? I was there, that's how. I watched you all evening, and I must say, bro, Mr. Excitement you're not.

"So now I've proven I'm of sound mind and body. Well, mind, anyway. See, that's the problem. The last few times I've projected it's been harder to find my way back to my body. I don't know if it's the sheer distances involved or if there's something I'm doing wrong. I'd ask old Henry, but he's vanished. The last time I did it, right before I sat down to write this letter, I almost didn't make it back. I went really far out that time. I left the planet. I left Earth, Chris! Do you understand the implications? Imagine, manned space exploration without a ship or a suit, without massive machinery and massive budgets. NASA will go broke!

"But that time, as exhilarating as it was, was almost my undoing. It took all I had to return to my body and I almost didn't make it. But I think I know where I went wrong and I'm certain it won't happen again.

"That's where you come in, big brother. I want you to make sure that if something does go wrong you'll protect my body until I find my way back. And believe me, Chris, I will come back. So if they call you and tell you they found me dead or comatose or something DON'T BELIVE IT! Don't let them take me, Chris. I promise you I will return if you'll just buy me the time I need. Please, big brother, look over me and keep me safe till I return."

The letter slipped from Chris's hand, the pages floating to the floor. A single tear traced a salty trail down his cheek as he gently touched the shiny new urn sitting on the end table next to him, the urn he'd just picked up that morning from the mortuary, the urn containing the last earthly remains of the late Kevin Jensen.