I made my way slowly to the bag. I could start to see the contents of it. I thought I saw – was there something in it? Someone in it?
They say Old Hica’s been reading palms out of her run-down shack for a hundred years or more. I reckon it’s been much longer than that.
At night, when Barb helps me lay down and tucks me in; when all of the lights go off and the respirators make their cough and hiss, I can still hear the dripping.
“How can you be alive. You aren’t real,” Dahlia Ray looked him up and down as his head tracked her.
“I’m as real as you. As real as anyone,” he said.