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take notice.”
    “Arlene,” Wade warns, “that’s enough.”
    But Gran pays no attention to him. Her beady brown eyes bore into mine. “You go back and make your life count! You make sure that rat bastard doesn’t get to Amy and then you—”
    “What rat bastard? What are you talking about?” I ask.
    “Arlene, no!” Wade’s voice drowns mine out. “You’re not supposed to interfere like that.”
    There is a shuffle of wind, a muffle ofwords. “He’s my grandson. I’ll interfere however I like.” Then Gran folds in on herself and is gone.
    I turn to Wade. “What did she mean? What rat bastard?”
    But Wade is silent.
    I have no choice now. If there is someone after Amy, I have to go back.
    Except, getting there might be tough. There isn’t an airport—or even an Amtrak station—in sight.

Chapter Four
    I float near the ceiling in Amy’s class at school.
    The kids are writing; their heads are bent over their books. It’s amazingly quiet for a class of grade fours.
    Getting here was amazing too. All I had to do was think “Amy” and then I heard the sucking noise—the same one that took Gran away—and I popped into place. I don’t know where Wade is. I don’t care.
    All I care about is Amy.
    And finding whoever Gran was talking about.
    Considering the way Gran exaggerates the failings of the male species, I figure the rat bastard is probably some nine-year-old with an attitude. I study the heads of the boys. Which one, I wonder, is bullying Amy?
    More to the point, what am I going to do about it?
    For a minute, I am surprised and disappointed to find Amy in school. I just died. That ought to be good for at least a week off. But as I look at the orange and brown Thanksgiving decorations on the wall—the turkeys and the horns of plenty—my eyes are drawn to the calendar beside the door.
    November 28.
    I have been dead a month.
    Shock makes me fall from the ceiling. I land in a sprawl on the floor beside Amy’s desk. Sitting up, I see the slight pucker of concentration between her eyes and I smell the baby powder scent of her soap.
    Love balloons inside my chest. It is like I am seeing my sister for the first time. Mylove for her is a warm, bursting thing, a strange and unusual thing. I don’t think I have ever felt love this big before.
    I whisper Amy’s name. She does not look up. I raise my voice just a little, automatically glancing at the teacher. Then I remember. No one can hear me.
    “Amy,” I say in a loud, powerful voice.
    Her eyes flicker. She sighs and stops writing. Then she starts up again.
    I recall Wade’s words: It takes skill to communicate with the living, and the living have to be willing to see the signs.
    Obviously I lack the skill to send the right sign.
    I feel a familiar snap of impatience with myself. Then I hear Wade’s voice inside my head.
    Relax , he says. It’s not like you have to be anywhere .
    Yeah, right, I mutter, staring hard at Amy. I wonder who she’s scared of. I speak again. “Who’s bugging you, Amy? Tell me, okay?”
    Slowly, like it is the most natural thing to do, I slide inside Amy’s mind. She is writingthe words of a story, but she is not concentrating. Her thoughts are a crisscross tangle. She misses me. She is scared she will die too. She is angry. At me for leaving, at Mom for being so sad, at Dad for pretending not to be. A piece of Hannah sits inside her mind too. Hannah has made her feel better about my death. I am grateful for that. Yet underneath everything is the blackness. The fear.
    I stare at it, hard. It spills its poison through me in the same way blood flows through arteries.
    Amy isn’t scared.
    Amy is terrified.
    And when I see who she is terrified of, I am sickened. I am shocked.
    And then I am there beside him.
    The cockpit glows with a million buttons, along the walls, in front of me, even on the ceiling. I recognize the airspeed indicator and the altimeter because once, when I was little, he gave me a tour of a plane.