“Where’s Mary?” the refugees all asked. “She didn’t go down, did she? Please don’t say that she went down.”

“They got her,” Moose informed them. “The Neons got her and took her away, coffin and all.” Which made the kids as miserable as if she had sunk.

Milos, however, was relieved—but it didn’t temper his anger. “Are you two idiots going to help me or not?” Moose and Squirrel hurried to him, making all sorts of excuses, but Milos would have none of it. “You are both cowards! Now go get the kids that are left, and get this train off of me.”

Moose and Squirrel went to gather the Afterlights who had hidden but had not run away. When Moose and Squirrel took a final head count, their number was forty-three.

“Forty-three?” wailed Milos from beneath the empty sleeping car. “How can there be only forty-three?”

“Most of ’em got scared off,” said Squirrel.

“Fine. Get them to push this thing off of me.”

But try as they might, forty-three Afterlights were not enough to leverage a train car off the tracks.

“That shucks,” said Moose. “Sho what do we do now?”

As Milos struggled to find a solution to his dilemma, he began to smell something. It was faint at first, barely perceptible but growing. It was sweet, and reminded Milos of childhood; something pleasant in the midst of this most unpleasant circumstance. Then all at once he realized that this particular aroma was not a good thing at all.

“Do you schmell that?” said Moose.

“It’s chocolate! It’s chocolate,” said Squirrel. “What do we do?”

By now other kids were scattering, terrified, knowing what that smell meant.

“No! No!” Milos shouted to them. “Stand your ground.”

“Easy for you to say,” shouted one of the escaping kids. “You can’t move.”

To their credit, Moose and Squirrel did not abandon Milos, although they probably both would have wet themselves, had they been alive.

The smell of chocolate quickly grew and became overpowering—intoxicating. Milos could not see anything from his angle, but Moose and Squirrel could, and what they saw made them quiver. The creature came lumbering down the tracks from the northeast, looking like some sort of swamp thing, but dripping chocolate instead of slime. Allie had told them that the Chocolate Ogre was just a boy—and that the monster legend was created by Mary to keep her children fearful, but this oozing spirit appeared every bit the monster that Mary had said it was.

The Chocolate Ogre strode forward at a steady pace along the track, the erie ploosh, ploosh, ploosh of his footsteps would have been comical if the sight of him wasn’t so terrifying. He arrived at the breeched sleeping car, and looked at Moose, then at Squirrel, perhaps for an explanation.

“We didn’t do it!” said Moose.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Squirrel, “it was like this when we got here!”

The Ogre looked at Milos, then back to Moose and Squirrel. “I’m looking for Allie. Do you know her? Do you know where I could find her?” His voice, although slobbery and thick, was not exactly the voice of a monster.

“She’s not here, she’s not here,” wailed Squirrel.

“Quiet!” yelled Milos. Even though he could barely move, he had a handle on the situation. The Ogre had never met them—he had no idea who they were! And so, Milos, using his friendliest voice, said, “We don’t know anyone by that name, but maybe we could help you find her.”

“Will you really help me?” asked the Ogre, overjoyed at the prospect.

To Milos he sounded like a very small child, innocent and trusting. This was not the way Allie had ever described Nick—but then, she hadn’t described him as this freak of fudge either. Perhaps some of him was lost in transformation.

“Mikey said she’d be on a train,” the Ogre said.

“Mikey?” said Moose.

“Do you know him?” asked the Ogre.

“Yeah, yeah,” chimed in Squirrel. “He’s . . . uh . . . uh . . . he’s our best friend!”

“Really? He’s mine too!” said the Ogre.

“And a friend of Mikey’s is a friend of ours,” said Milos. Then he added, “Of course, friends do not let other friends stay stuck beneath trains, do they?”

“No,” said the Ogre. “I guess not.”

“And I’ve heard that the Chocolate Ogre is as strong as a hundred Afterlights.”

“You’ve heard that?” The Ogre was a bit confused.

“Of course!” said Milos. “Why, people have seen you lift entire buildings with your bare hands.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really—so lifting a train should be easy for you.”

Milos did not know all the physical laws of Everlost—but he knew that physical strength had nothing to do with muscles. Afterlights had no actual muscles, just the memory of them. In Everlost you are what you remember—and if memory makes the man, perhaps Milos could plant a false memory of superhuman strength within the Chocolate Ogre’s mind. . . .

“I can pick up a train?” the Ogre asked.

“Sure you can! You could juggle train cars if you wanted to.”

“Hmmm. I’d need three to do that.”

Then the Chocolate Ogre knelt down, grunted like a weight lifter, and in one swift move, lifted the train car off of Milos, hoisting it high above his head.

“What should I do with it?” asked the Ogre.

“How far can you throw it?” asked Moose.

“A mile, I’ll bet,” said Squirrel.

The Ogre thought about it. “I don’t think so, but maybe to those bushes over there.” Then he let it go and sure enough, he threw it exactly as far as he believed he could. It landed in a copse of living-world tumbleweeds, scattering the Afterlights who were hiding behind it, then the sleeping car slowly began to sink into the ground.

Now that Milos was free, he took a moment to study the Ogre, looking into those murky eyes sunken into that mess of a face. This once-human creature seemed lost in a fundamental way. Well, thought Milos, finders keepers! Milos reached his arm out and shook the Ogre’s hand heartily. His whole hand was enveloped in chocolate. “My name is Milos. This is Moose and Squirrel. You are one of us now.”

“I’m . . . I’m . . .” The Ogre searched his thoughts and finally said, “I’m Nick.”

When Milos pulled back his hand, it was covered in chocolate. In a world where food was rarely seen, the sight of chocolate was tempting. He didn’t need to eat—no one in Everlost needed to eat, but that didn’t stop the craving for food—especially something as uniquely satisfying as a taste of chocolate. Milos couldn’t help himself. He licked the chocolate from his hand, and it was absolutely delicious! No wonder the Ogre was able to gather followers. He may not have had Mary’s beauty or vision, but he was a virtual fountain of the thing kids most wanted!

Milos turned and called out to the brush around him. “Come out, all of you!” he said. “The Chocolate Ogre is on our side now. He’s going to help us.”

Bit by bit, the frightened Afterlights cautiously came out of hiding.

“Come see what he has for you,” Milos said. “It is a peace offering and he gives it freely!”

They came forward, and dozens upon dozens of hands reached toward the Ogre, touching his shoulder, his arm, and even his face, taking little bits of him away. One taste of the chocolate was enough to win most of them over.

“But, but . . . Mary told us he was a monster,” said one of the reluctant ones.

“He was,” said Milos being careful to choose his words just right. “But it was Mary’s dream to rehabilitate him, and to make him see her way. Now her dream has come true.”

“Mary . . . ,” said the Chocolate Ogre. He looked off, searching his sopping sweet memory of a mind. “I loved Mary,” he said. This next part came out as a question. “And . . . Mary loved . . . me?”

Milos stood with his mouth open. Moose and Squirrel were wise enough to stay quiet and waited to see how Milos would handle it.

“Yes,” Milos finally said. “Yes. Mary loves all of us, and we all love her.”

The Chocolate Ogre shook his head “No, this was different. . . .” And as Milos watched, it seemed that his features began to look clearer and more defined, less like a thing, and more like a person. Even his voice sounded less slippery. “Yes, we were in love.”

Then Milos let out a calculated laugh and Moose and Squirrel took the cue to laugh as well, until Milos put up his hand to silence them, and became very, very serious.

“Loss of memory is not a thing to laugh at,” Milos said. “All Afterlights must face it. I am truly sorry, and I hope you will forgive me. But you see, Mary has only one love—one soulmate in Everlost . . . and that would be me.”

The Ogre said nothing at first, and Milos didn’t give him any time to think it through. “In all the stories I have heard about the Chocolate Ogre, no one ever mentions Mary—but there is a girl to whom the Ogre is devoted. Let’s see, what was her name again?” Milos pretended to think for a moment, then snapped his fingers. “Jill! That’s it—her name is Jackin’ Jill.”

“Jill?” The Ogre took in the lie, and his face began to lose some of its form again, his identity moving away from the boy once known as Nick.

“Yes, you love Jill,” Milos insisted, “and you long to wrap your arms around her, and smother her in chocolate, and sink with her down to the center of the earth.”

“And . . . and this Jill . . . she loves me?”

“More than anything,” said Moose.

Squirrel snickered. “Yeah, yeah, a match made in heaven.” The Chocolate Ogre’s muddy eyes now darted back and forth between the three of them in confusion.

“Do whatever I tell you,” said Milos, “and we will make sure you find Jackin’ Jill, the girl you love.”

The Chocolate Ogre sighed, resigned, and Milos turned to the gathered kids, who still reveled in the tiny taste of chocolate they all just had. “We will track down our attackers and bring Mary back,” Milos told them. “I promise you this.”

“But there are so many of them,” said one fearful Afterlight. “And they have weapons.”

Milos waved the worry away. “Who needs weapons when we have the Chocolate Ogre on our side?”

“Wait,” said the Ogre, trying to remember something. “What about . . . uh . . . what about . . . Allie?”

To which Milos replied, “Allie who?”

The Chocolate Ogre opened his mouth as if to say something—as if there was something he was supposed to remember—someone he was supposed to find. But whatever memory he was trying to save, it sank into the mire of his mind just as the sleeping car sank into the earth.

In her book My Struggle: The Quest for a Perfect World, Mary Hightower expresses her feelings on “lost souls.”