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the cool autumn day, this could almost be paradise, or at least, a version of it. Barring Lasting Rest Mausoleum looming over everything, of course.
    A cry rends the quiet, followed by a choking sound.
    “They want out, don’t they?” I say. I get no response.
    “Katy, look!” Malcolm points, then reaches for one of our Tupperware containers.
    Above one of the cups of coffee, something swirls. It’s a puny thing, hardly more than a sprite, but its presence tinges the air, makes it glimmer in a way steam alone can’t. Malcolm traps it easily in the container. The thing doesn’t even put up a fight, but merely sinks to the bottom as if it needs a good rest.
    He peers at the container and then at me. “It’s exhausted.”
    I nod.
    “Ghosts get tired?”
    I shrug. “Maybe from being inside someone else, with so many others?”
    Maybe. And maybe it simply doesn’t matter, not when a second, third, and fourth swirl above two cups of coffee and one of tea. We trap them, one by one, and place the containers in the back of my truck.
    The stillness catches us off guard. We’ve been so busy catching ghosts that only now do I notice that the air is stale. The steam sinks into the cups as if it has acquired weight. The world is silent and devoid of everything—smells, sounds. I inch closer to Malcolm, but even his Ivory soap and nutmeg scent eludes me.
    “It’s like the calm before the storm,” I say.
    He nods toward my truck, not so much at it as the space beneath it. He taps his fingers against his thigh, a countdown.
    Three … two … one .
    We both dive beneath the tailgate. The asphalt tears at my stockings, scrapes my bare skin. Malcolm tugs me close while around the truck, coffee and tea rain down. It’s a storm and it’s unrelenting. The laugh that follows rings hollow and makes my heart squeeze tight.
    “Bravo, bravo. But did you really think coffee would work?” That metallic voice is triumphant.
    Malcolm eyes me. I’m afraid my expression must convey it all: yes, I really did think coffee would work.
    “The ghosts are exhausted,” I whisper. “They really want to leave. They need a reason to break free.”
    That’s when I feel the familiar and icy caress against my cheek. She must swoop in and nudge Malcolm as well, for his eyes go wide.
    “Katy, that’s not—”
    “It is,” I say. “That’s my grandmother.”
    She continues to swoop and nudge, as if she could push me from beneath the truck. I flip over and low crawl my way from its shelter. I roll and miss most of the larger coffee puddles. They’ve lost all their scent, and the air above them is cold and stale, but as my grandmother whirls around the truck, a glimmer returns to the day.
    Somewhere in the far-off tree line, a howl reverberates.
    “More coffee,” I say. “And tea.”
    Malcolm fires up the camp stove. I measure out the grounds. In the back of the truck, my grandmother swoops around the Tupperware containers, the ones with occupants. The ghosts rattle, then sink, rattle, sink. She darts back and forth before streaming across the parking lot. I catch the barest glimmer of her near the tree line.
    I grip Malcolm’s wrist. “She’s using herself as bait.”
    His face is stricken. He shakes me off, then, before I can say or do anything, he bolts across the parking lot, toward the tree line, his brother, and the ghost of my grandmother.
     
    * * *
     
    From the moment Malcolm vanishes into the trees, my world goes quiet. Make the coffee, I order myself. Make the coffee, pour the cups, add the cream and sugar. Move your hands and everything will be okay. Move your hands.
    My legs twitch. It’s all I can do not to tear across the parking lot after them. But if the coffee isn’t brewed, if the containers aren’t out and ready to capture ghosts, then whatever happens to my grandmother and Malcolm will be for nothing.
    I count the cups. I pull out extra containers and count those too. What I don’t count on is seeing the