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erupt at frequent intervals. I always thought death was hardest on those left behind. Not anymore.
    â€œI don’t think I’ll ever get used to being dead” is the last thing I hear Jimmy whisper as I drift off into dreams of fathomless darkness.

Chapter Six
    â€œTime to get up, Keira Nolan.”
    Jimmy’s shimmery face is barely an inch from mine. My heart skips, forgetting for a moment that last night I had somehow been allowed an exclusive glimpse into the next realm.
    â€œYou’re lying. My alarm hasn’t gone off yet.” I hadn’t drawn the curtains properly and now one annoying beam of sunlight shines right on my face. Groaning, I roll onto my stomach. I feel pressure on my shoulder and a jolt, and I realize he’s trying to shake me.
    â€œSleep is very important for those of us with bodies,” I mumble. The pillow rips out from under my head. “What are you doing?”
    â€œGet up.” He stares at me solemnly, and I feel awful for making the jibe about having a body.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” I scramble out of bed. Jimmy’s blue plaid shirt and faded jeans are dry now, as opposed to sopping wet a few hours ago.
    His head wound has closed up a little. Which is confusing, because how can an apparition heal? Whatever. I’m seeing less of his brain, and that is a blessing before breakfast.
    â€œWhat’s wrong is that I had to listen to you snore all night,” he says. Before I can deny snoring, he goes on. “But while you were sleeping, I discovered a whole new skill set. I can move things now.”
    With a single finger, he pushes my chair around like it’s no big deal. Yet it’s pretty amazing that a person who doesn’t have living muscles, nerves and bones can wheel a chair.
    â€œHow did you do that?” I ask, wide-eyed. Pity I don’t have a football or any kind of sports equipment to keep him entertained.
    He plants his fists on his hips like a superhero. “It starts with a thought. Total concentration. I can mess around with computers, make cameras go fuzzy. Really useful shit. Yeah, I was pretty busy last night. You slept through it all.”
    â€œI had a hectic night of dreaming,” I tell him in all seriousness. Night after night, my subconscious treats me to vivid, movie-like dreams. Sometimes I wake up exhausted. This morning, for instance, my leg muscles feel weak because I spent the good part of a dream running from a pack of golden-eyed wolves.
    Jimmy grows serious. “It felt like a dream. When I realized I’d left my body. That I was a goner.”
    â€œI’m sorry.” I bite my lip, and focus on tossing gum wrappers and broken pens from my bag.
    Smirking, he says, “Why are you sorry? It’s not like you killed me.” After a pause, “Did you?”
    â€œHell, no.”
    His gaze flicks over every contour of my body. I feel exposed, even though I’m wearing my faded, stretched-out Jimmy Hawkins T-shirt. My cheeks burn with a red-hot blush.
    â€œYou’re wearing a nightshirt with my face on it, so I guess I should believe you.” He stifles a laugh.
    Folding my arms across my chest, I stammer. “E-exactly. If I hated you enough to want to kill you, I’d probably stick your picture on a dart board.”
    â€œBoy, am I glad I found you instead of the wide receiver I crushed in last week's game.”
    â€œThe crowd went nuts then,” I say, remembering their deafening cheers. Jimmy helped the guy stand up and made sure he was okay.
    He looks surprised. “You were there?”
    â€œAlong with the rest of the town. And a
lot
of people wore official Jimmy Hawkins shirts.” I somehow manage to get the words past a big lump in my throat.
    He flashes a grin and studies the floor. “Who could’ve guessed that my winning touchdown against Linden High would be my last one ever, huh?”
    Tears start to well, but I blink them away.