Page 68 of The Turning of the Tables

“So then why are you afraid of dying?” he asked.

I blinked. It was a valid question. I knew there was another plane of existence. I’d met ghosts. I knew a medium who could drag them back from beyond the veil. I wouldn’t cease to exist.

But most people, when they died, didn’t want to stick around. Ghosts like Sylvia and Archie—Ward’s resident ghosts—were extremely unusual, at least from my admittedly limited understanding. They didn’t stay here. Theychanged.

“I don’t want to leave people,” I said, knowing even as I said it how awful a thing it was to say to a man whose dead family presumably wasn’t staying in this plane for him. They’d moved on. Left him behind. “The dead change,” I murmured. “I don’t want to change that much.”

“And you don’t want to transform, either,” he said, an edge to his voice that I didn’t fully understand, but that stung anyway.

“I’ve seen it,” I whispered, my own voice sounding harsh, even though I was barely speaking. “What Noah went through.”

“So it’s the pain?” He was judging me. I didn’t blame him, because I was also judging me.

“It’s not the pain,” I answered truthfully. Pain doesn’t scare me. I live with pain. It’s like a barnacle or an annoying neighbor you’ve lived beside for a decade and are just used to, even if sometimes it’s much, much worse than at other times. “It’s the loss of control.” That terrified me. The idea that I wouldn’t have any agency about what happened to my body. That the body I understood—pain and all—would no longer be mine.

Elliot let out a soft grunt. “Then you’re smarter than most.”

That didn’t make me feel better.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

“Fucking terrified,” I almost snapped.

“Physically,” he clarified.

“Oh. Sorry.” Embarrassment and shame flamed up my neck.

“How do you feel?” he repeated, and his tone was gentle. Kind.

Shit.“I—I hurt,” I told him.

“Congestion? Nausea? Bowel issues?”

“Not really, no. I—” I swallowed. “I’m scared, so kinda nauseous because of that. But not sick-sick.”

“That’s good,” Elliot told me. “No symptoms is good.”

“Yeah,” I said softly.

“How long is Noah at work?” he asked me, then.

“Until eleven.”

“Do you want to watch a movie?”

“Um. I could, I guess? And let you go.”

“I meant with me, Seth.”

The tears welled up again. “Oh,” I said, stupidly.

“What platforms do you have?”

We settled onTop Gun. And he stayed on the phone with me until I heard Noah come home.

“Night, Elliot,” I half-whispered.

“Good night, Seth. Take care of yourself.”