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time he’d eaten a donut. Couldn’t even remember
if he’d liked them. But the way the melted sugar clung to his lips
had him wishing for another.
    “I’ll pay you back for these,” Oz said.
    Jamie shrugged. “Nah, don’t worry about it.
Dad throws money at me to make up for spending a grand total of
twenty minutes with me per week. Not counting arguments.”
    “You’re exaggerating.”
    Jamie frowned. “We don’t have much in common.
Dad’s really into sports. He’s been on me to get into soccer, but
all that running messes with my asthma. Scares my mom. They fight
about it a lot.”
    Oz sighed. Maybe he wasn’t exaggerating. He
felt for the kid.
    “My dad kind of sucked, too,” he said.
    “Yeah?”
    “And he had this disgusting habit of walking
about in a short robe. Got my birds and the bees lesson a decade
before I was ready for it.”
    Jamie snorted. “Disgusting.”
    “Tell me about it. Scarred for life, I am.”
Oz licked his fingers. “So what does your dad do?”
    “I don’t really know what it’s called. Mom
says he’s a mosquito.”
    “A mosquito?”
    “A blood-sucker.”
    “Oh.”
    Oz’s father had been a pilot in the Marines.
Even after he retired, he never really let go of the military.
Rising at dawn, training every day, was Hell on Earth. The only
“quality time” they had together was when he barked orders as Oz
struggled to climb a rock wall, assembled over several weekends.
His dad decided it was his duty to whip Oz into shape when
prepubescent baby fat failed to melt with time.
    “What do you do, exactly?” Jamie asked. “I
mean, I know you’re dead but...do you just haunt people or
something?”
    “Mm. No. I kind of help people move on.”
    “Move on to where? Heaven?”
    “Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t know where they
go. I basically just give them bus fare.”
    “I don’t know what that means.”
    “To be honest, kid, neither do I.”
    Jamie nodded and wiped his hands on his
jeans, leaving whitish streaks. He stood and secured his backpack.
“I gotta get going. If I’m not home when my dad gets back from the
gym he’s going to kill me.”
    Oz laughed. Then realized how long he’d been
gone and panicked.
    “Shit! Oh, fuck.” Oz flew from the bench.
    “What’s wrong?”
    “Nothing. I just—fuck.”
    He’d been gone for hours. Something deep
inside told him that Bard waited at the apartment and he was
pissed.
    “Nice to meet you, Jamie,” Oz said and
sprinted toward his apartment building.
     

 
    Chapter
Seven
     
    Of all the times to be right...
    Oz burst through the apartment door to find
Bard sitting cross-legged on the floor of the kitchen with a
smoldering cigarette protruding from between his lips. He chipped
away at a piece of wood—was it part of the floorboard?—with a Swiss
army knife.
    “Kind of you to show your face, Princess,” he
said, not looking up from his project.
    “Sorry. I was...”
    Bard pushed himself off the ground with an
unexpected grace and leaned in close to Oz’s face. He scraped the
corner of his mouth with the blade.
    “That jiz on your mouth, Princess?”
    Oz wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Fuck you.”
    Bard smirked and tucked the knife into one of
his many jacket pockets. “Went shopping for a pair, eh? Well you’d
better hope your excursion didn’t make us late. We’ve got a pick
up.”
    * * *
    Bard gave Oz the silent treatment the entire
walk to a Starbucks nestled in the bottom floor of one of the
smaller downtown skyscrapers. Oz didn’t mind the punishment. It was
a welcome reprieve from the pain centralized at the front of his
brain that always accompanied the sound of Bard’s voice.
    Bard opened the door, and the pair walked
inside without issue.
    “What the hell?” Oz eyed the door like it’d
betrayed him.
    Bard stalked to the back of the shop and sat
at a table facing the long line of patrons forming at the cash
register. Oz sat opposite him.
    “I spent all damn day trying to get