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So Cassidy wouldn’t have to be alone after all. Not this afternoon, anyway. Still, she answered with a huff. “I wanna see what’s happening over by the Hermit’s house.”

I’ve heard a lot of people saying lately that death is a natural occurrence. That it’s a good thing. That even though it’s sad when it happens, it does happen to everyone. That it’ll happen to me one day, a long time from now. But how can anyone be sure about that last part? About when?
    This girl in my class named Jackie Spencer died last week. A livery cab hit her when she was walking home from school with her mom. An accident.
    There’s nothing natural about what happened to Jackie. She was my age. And she had so much life left, just like me. I hope.
    I saw my friends crying. And their parents too. I got this horrible headache and a pain in my stomach that made me not want to eat. They say that these feelings will go away. It just takes time. But it hurts so much, I can’t believe that.
    So I don’t think that death is a good thing. I think it’s a bad thing. It’s one of the most horrible, bad, and unfair things I can think of in this whole stupid world. And I’m putting it in this notebook because I want Death to know I understand. People can say what they want, but I know the truth. I can feel it.

S TANDING AT THE END of the cul-de-sac, the two girls watched in awe as the cleaning crew filled the two overflowing Dumpsters. Most of what they brought out was already bagged and tied, but there were a few items — furniture, open cardboard boxes, pieces of framed artwork — that were simply tossed on top of the pile. Some of it had spilled onto the gravel driveway.
    Cassidy recognized several of the Tremonts’ neighbors who’d gathered in groups around the asphalt circle. Rumors swirled too quickly to catch all of them. Supposedly, another large bin was on its way. The crew hoped to be finished by evening but there was so much junk inside that old farmhouse, no one was sure how long the clean-up would take.
    As the sun beat down on the girls, sweat beaded on their foreheads, and they told each other their own stories, where they’d come from, where they wanted to go. Ping had grown up in a city too, though hers had been on the West Coast and not nearly as large or intimidating as New York. Her twin brothers were a few years younger than she. Her parents were both professors at different universities in the area. Ping liked the change here, especially since New Jersey had its own particular brand of peculiar — and a whole magazine dedicated to that fact. In the pages of Strange State , Ping had read about rinky-dink roadside attractions (Insect World! Haunted Mini-Golf!), abandoned highways, even a few ghost towns. She promised Cassidy that she’d share a few copies with her soon. And though Cassidy was happy for the distraction, she couldn’t stop thinking of what she’d overheard Joey say inside the Tremonts’ kitchen.
    Was Lucky’s death last summer really her fault? Should she apologize? Beg Joey’s forgiveness? If Joey believed Lucky’s ghost was haunting him, maybe he wasn’t thinking properly. Maybe he just needed space. Then she thought of what she’d seen in the woods. The thing moving between the trees. And the sound of barking.
    She glanced at Ping, who seemed intrigued by the heap in the driveway. “You don’t believe Joey, do you?”
    “About what?” Ping asked.
    “That his dog is a ghost now.”
    “Of course I do,” Ping answered. “Why would he have made up a story like that? It only seems to upset his parents. Unless he wants to upset his parents.”
    Cassidy watched Ping’s eyes for a sign that she was kidding around — a squint, a glimmer of a hidden laugh — but Ping’s face was open and friendly. “Say the dog really is a ghost,” Cassidy whispered. “What if the ghost blames someone for what happened to it? What if Lucky has been waiting for that someone to return to Whitechapel, so