Page 33 of She’s a Doll

“Neither did I. But, you know, extraordinary circumstances and all that.”

Did he tell you to bless me? Dip me in holy water? Bury me in a church graveyard?

“He told me to go to the hospital.”

Did you?

“No.”

What about the audiologist? What did they say?

“To check my Bluetooth settings,” she answered, bending down to pick the hammer up off the floor.

I twitched and wriggled.

She watched me, eyes keen, as she slowly hung the hammer back up in its outline on the wall. Then, still slowly, like she was approaching a skittish animal, she walked over to the bench and set the box down. I watched as she opened it, pulling out Bubble Wrap, a small instruction booklet, and finally a small plastic gun with a bright-orange trigger.

It took me a moment to register what I was seeing.

A glue gun.

“Will this hurt?” she asked. “If I glue your bits back together? Sorry, I don’t have anything fancier than this.”

I don’t feel pain anymore, I said.

She nodded, plugged the glue gun into a socket in the wall, and fed a stick of glue into the back of it, twisting a dial on the side until a small red light came on.

“So . . . eh . . . I’m sorry about . . . the other night.”

It’s cool, I said, a knee-jerk response.

“Is it? I mean. I know you’re already . . . um . . .”

Dead? I said.

“I was going to say ‘passed on.’”

Please just say dead. ‘Passed on’ makes me feel like a kidney stone.

“Right. OK. You’re already dead, but I did try to kill you, again, which was kinda shitty of me.”

I get it. I’m spooky. It’s fine.

“I read your Instagram messages.”

Pretty sure that’s a violation of privacy.

“Pretty sure you deserved it after the shit you said to me at my job.”

I couldn’t argue with that.

“But yes, I’m sorry about that too. I just . . . I needed to know it was real and not . . . I dunno.”

It’s fine, I said. No one DMs me on Insta anyway.

“Actually, you have hundreds of new messages.”

Really?