“What about me?” he asked, taken aback by my cold tone.

“Last time I checked, Mr. Popularity just had his first real conversation with his friends in months. And I basically made you do it.”

Joshua crossed his arms too, suddenly defensive. “Yeah, so?”

“So I know what you’ve been doing.”

“And what exactly is that?”

“Avoiding the living, Joshua. Choosing the dead.”

His arms dropped. Even in the dark I could see his pained expression. “Don’t call yourself that, Amelia. Please.”

“But that’s what I am,” I pressed, my tone softening a bit. “I’m dead. There’s really no point in calling me by any other name, is there?”

He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Living, dead—I don’t care. I’m with you. And I’m going to do whatever needs to be done.”

I sighed. “That’s one of the things that’s been bothering me lately, Joshua. I understand why you think you need to do it, but just … don’t, okay? Don’t let go of your friends because you think it will benefit me.”

“Benefit us,” he corrected.

“‘Us’ is okay,” I said, fighting the cruel little voice that reminded me of what a lie I’d just told. “We’re going to be all right. In fact, we’ll be even better if you just go back to living your life the way you did before we met. Except, you know … with me in it.”

Joshua’s eyebrows drew together in doubt. “Are you sure, Amelia?”

I threw my hands up in the air. “You keep asking me that like you have some reason to think it isn’t true.”

“Are you saying I don’t …?” He cracked a small, questioning smile.

“I’m saying you don’t.”

In my head, I added, Actually, I’m saying it’d be better if you started living your life like I wasn’t even in it. But whatever.

“How about I make you a deal, then?” Joshua said. “I’ll make an effort to spend time with my friends, and you’ll try to be—”

“Happier?” I offered.

“Happier works.”

“Good,” I said, nodding. “Happier works for me, too.”

Joshua laughed. “And here I thought we weren’t going to have a big fight.”

I drew closer to him. “I can think of a few ways we could make it up to each other. I mean, you weren’t planning on sleeping tonight, were you?”

“Absolutely not. That’s what tomorrow’s car ride is for.”

His smile broadened into the one I loved so much, and I paused, just for a second, to memorize every detail of it. Then I melted into him again.

Chapter

SEVEN

By hour six of our drive to New Orleans, I wished I had slept last night. Nightmares, involuntary materializations—any number of unpleasant things would have been preferable to this car ride.

With bleary eyes I surveyed the interior of the Mayhews’ SUV. Though it looked spacious enough, the vehicle had already proved too small to handle this particular grouping of people.

In the front, Jeremiah and Rebecca continued to trade positions between the driver and passenger seats. Despite this split of duties, the two couldn’t seem to stop bickering over who had the best set of directions. As a result, we’d spent half the drive on the highway and the other half on a disconcerting maze of back roads. So instead of four remaining hours in the car, we had at least six more ahead of us.

To no one’s surprise, Joshua and Jillian weren’t handling the endless claustrophobia well, either. Like young children, they’d occupied hours of this drive with snide remarks, kicked seats, and passive-aggressive sighs. Now, in a rare but nearly blissful period of silence, Jillian stretched across the first row of bench seats, listening quietly to her iPod while Joshua napped beside me in the back row.

While he slept, his head rolled backward on the top of the seat, affording me a good view of his profile. I watched it for a moment and then sighed. If only I could find a way to sleep without nightmares, I might forget how little time I had left to look at him.

I turned to stare out the window, at the other problem plaguing our drive. Apparently, the winter storm had decided to follow us south. Although we’d driven hundreds of miles away from Wilburton, the snow continued to fall, piling up in the ditches alongside the highway and shifting like thin, insubstantial ghosts upon the surface of the road. Flurries swirled against the windows, distorting the landscape that moved past us.

Without the responsibility of navigating through this storm, I might have found the scenery peaceful. But my mind still reeled as much as it had last night. In fact, it hadn’t stopped reeling. For many hours I’d alternated between trying to find a way out of my exile and reminding myself that, by evading the dark spirits, I would keep them from hurting anyone else.

I’d also spent a great deal of time wondering where I’d materialize to once the Mayhews returned home. I couldn’t decide whether I should pick the location in advance, in case I was too upset to make a decision when the time came, or whether I should just vanish to somewhere unknown. Somewhere so far from Wilburton I could never find my way home again.

As I stared out the window, with my mind jumping from one bad option to another, my eyes occasionally caught on an individual snowflake. I mindlessly followed one’s progress until the wind whisked it away and another flake took its place. The longer I watched the flakes, the more they mesmerized me, like a thousand tiny hypnotists intent on distracting me from the problems at hand.

While the storm held my attention, another part of my mind caught glimpses of the landscape behind it. White hills and valleys—indistinguishable from one another in the heavy snow—rushed past us. I started to suspect that an empty world waited just beyond this vehicle. A world untouched and blank: not for me to write my story upon, but to disappear into. To fade against, finally, like the ghost I was.

I shook my head lightly, trying to focus, but I couldn’t make anything out in all that infinite white. Soon my eyes glazed over and my vision blurred until I’d had far more of the bright emptiness than I could take. I turned back to the dark interior of the SUV for some relief.

And then I gasped.

The upholstered seats, the low ceiling of the SUV—everything was gone. Replaced by the bright, blinding snow.

I looked down to find that my legs, instead of being curled beneath me in the back row of the SUV, were buried ankle-deep in the snow. Inexplicably, I’d gone from the safety of the vehicle to the center of the blizzard. From what I could see—which wasn’t much—the SUV had disappeared, wiped from existence by the storm.

Upon realizing this, I could actually feel the blizzard: the cold wind gusting around me, battering my shoulders and whipping my dark hair into tangles in the air; the frozen ground stinging the soles of my bare feet; the snow soaking the hem of my dress until it clung, wet and uncomfortable, against my legs.

But just as abruptly as I’d entered it, the storm ended.

I watched, stunned, as the dark clouds broke apart to reveal a soft, summery blue sky. The last shriek of the winter gale died in the air, and a warm breeze took its place. Then, like the grand finale of some fantastic play, the heavy layer of snow melted into lush, green grass—grass that should have died months ago and shouldn’t now sprout a blanket of wildflowers.

Within seconds I’d gone from the Arctic Circle to some prairie paradise.

I lifted one foot and marveled at the daisy that had just popped up beneath it. “What the …?” I murmured aloud.

“More like ‘where the,’ actually,” a pleasant voice chirped from somewhere behind me.