Page 37 of Haunt Me

"So you're just stealing my coffee?"

“We both know you aren’t going to finish it.”

He’d narrow his eyes at me, trying not to laugh.

"I have no idea what you're talking about." I’d smile innocently.

"Liar,” he’d say.

"I prefer strategically adorable."

His eyes would roll, but then he’d smile.

He always smiled.

The memory slips away before I can hold onto it. I don't know why some stay longer than others.

Maybe because I remember laughing.

Maybe because somewhere deep inside, Sam does too.

As he pulls back onto the highway, his fingers tighten around the steering wheel for just a second. So quick I almost think I imagined it.

* * *

But I know him.

He remembered the coffee.

I move closer even though I know it won't change anything. "I'm here," I whisper.

The words disappear before they ever reach him.

I've tried shouting. I've tried crying. I've begged until my voice should’ve given out, though I don't think spirits lose their voices. Nothing changes.

The first time I reached for him, my hand passed through his shoulder so quickly I thought I'd missed. The second time, I knew better. Now I don't reach anymore.

The radio’s off, the way it always is now. Somewhere outside, a church bell rings the hour, faint and distant, marking a town whose name I never learned. I used to be able to name every town we passed through together, every diner, every gas station where he’d buy me the wrong candy on purpose just to watch me pretend to be annoyed. Now they blur together into one long stretch of asphalt and grief. I’ve stopped trying to hold onto the details. There’s nothing here worth remembering except him.

The truck slows as another little town appears ahead, the kind with a church on one corner and a diner across from it. Samuel glances toward the help wanted sign taped inside the garage window.

He keeps driving. But a mile later, he turns around. The decision looks almost reluctant, like it took more energy than it should’ve.

The owner is older, broad shoulders that have gone soft with age and grease worked so deeply into his hands I don't think it’ll ever wash out. He’s got the kind of face that’s spent decades outside and something in his eyes when he looks at Samuel. It makes me think he’s seen a version of this before, a man passing through with more trouble following him than he has luggage.

Samuel doesn't introduce himself. He never does anymore.

"You know your way around an engine?" the man asks.

Samuel nods once.

"I only need somebody for a couple of days."

Another nod.

The man jerks his thumb toward an old Ford on the far side of the garage.

"See if you can figure out what's wrong."