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that—
    “Is that a cigar you’re smoking?”
    “Cuba’s finest,” he said jovially, cracking a crooked grin. “Thank God I died before the embargo.”
    She could see him more clearly now, probably because he wasn’t floating just below a light bulb. He seemed almost real now, a nice-looking man around her own age, dressed in high-waisted trousers, a white button-down shirt, and short vest. No shoes, just tartan socks, like he had just gotten home from work and had taken off his suit jacket and shoes to unwind. And that damned cigar…
    “You’re not allowed to smoke a cigar in the library!”
    “Are you really trying to convince me that you can smell this thing?” He raised an eyebrow, and she paused.
    She took a surreptitious deep breath, but the ghost caught her. “What, you think I’d waste a perfectly good real cigar on my dead self? I can’t smell, I can’t taste. I can’t breathe.” He waved the cigar around, and she followed a cloud of ghostly ashes as they drifted toward the carpet. They disappeared just before they hit the dark green floor, though, disintegrating gracefully, as though an invisible hand had simply reached out and snatched them up.
    “ God ,” she whispered.
    “No, no. Not God. Though it wouldn’t be the first time a pretty lady made that mistake. My name’s Bill.”
    She snapped her head up at that, the feeling of being in a dream disappearing with a crack. “Your name is Bill? Ghosts aren’t named Bill .”
    He humphed and tapped the cigar, dropping more ash toward the carpet. She tried not to cringe as it fell. “Okay, Miss Ghost Expert—and, yes, I’m being sarcastic about the expert part, considering that you flew into a tizzy when you saw me earlier—what should ghosts be named? I’m going to go with ‘Bill’ until you come up with something better. Least because it’s my name.”
    Was this really happening?
    She crossed her arms and scowled. “Well, ghosts should be named something venerable, in light of their situation. Like…Horace. Or, at least ‘William’ instead of ‘Bill.’”
    “I’m a spirit from the hereafter, not a lawyer, toots. And if you think ‘Horace’ is venerable, then it doesn’t matter whether you’re making me up, since you’re crazy for thinking such a thing. Horace Fulkes is proof enough that the name is not enough to merit the description of venerable .”
    “Who is Horace Fulkes? And did you just call me toots ?”
    Bill nodded. “Take it as a compliment. If I’d called you ma’am , it’d mean I didn’t like you much. You might be kind of uptight, but you’ve got spunk. I like that.”
    Marnie was shaking her head, trying to understand how she’d gotten into this bizarre situation, but Bill continued. “Horace was the ice man for five weeks back in ’18, before Mr. Simmons caught Mrs. Simmons doing something with Horace Fulkes on the kitchen counter that they couldn’t pass off as just a regular old ice delivery.”
    “Why would I hallucinate something this weird ?”
    “You think you’re hallucinating?”
    “Of course I do! I mean, I thought I was. I read a children’s story about you, for goodness’ sake. No one has seen you, ever. At least no one I know. Most people haven’t even heard about you! You weren’t supposed to really exist. You know, like an urban legend.”
    He waggled his brows at her. “Who says I’m not a legend? Maybe not in the same way you’re thinking, but many a folk has said something to that effect about me when I was still alive.”
    Marnie crossed her arms in front of her chest and rolled her eyes.
    Bill humphed. “Fine, maybe you’re right. Maybe you are having a mental breakdown and I’m just a figment of your imagination.”
    She uncrossed her arms and slumped, looking down at her hands before she sighed heavily. “Not likely. I’m the most sane person I know. The fact that I’m having a conversation with you is proof enough that I know I’m not making this up. I