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“Does he speak of me?” he asked. “Lex. When I am not there.”

“Are you kidding? He can’t shut up.” I grinned. “It’s the most annoying thing that’s ever happened to me. He’s been saying your name for a week. Maksim this, Maksim that. Maksim doesn’t eat. Maksim says the word ‘nonetheless.’ I’m being haunted.”

Something crossed his face. It was small. It lit him up from inside, like a lamp being carried into a room.

“Thank you,” he said.

“For what?”

“For telling me.”

“Don’t mention it.” I turned to go, and hesitated, one hand on the rusty rail. “Hey. Can I ask you something?”

“Yes.”

“Is your name really Volkov?”

“It is my name.”

“Do you, like… have a lot of ghosts in your family?”

A pause.

“I do not understand.”

“I mean, my grandma had one. Harold. I don’t know why I’m asking. It’s just, you remind me of him a little. He was really lonely, too. He moved the salt shakers a lot. I always thought that if he had a friend, he might’ve stopped.”

The wind died. The stars burned overhead.

“I have never met Harold,” said Maksim, very gravely. “But I would be honored to be considered his cousin.”

I laughed so hard I had to hold the rail.

The next day was Friday, and I did something I’d been thinking about for a week. I asked Chip to come to the bar with us.

Chip is the guy I was rooming with before Lex came. His name is Chip Dunleavy, and he is six-foot-one and stooped and allergic to fish, with the saddest eyes in North America. I’d bribed him with two hundred dollars to move to Room 305, and I’d felt bad ever since, so I found him in the lobby eating a bagel and said, “Chip. Buddy. It’s on me.”

His eyes filled with tears.

“I’ve been so lonely,” he said.

“I know, bud.”

“Room 305 has a ghost.”

“It does not.”

“It does. The radiator sings.”

“That’s just the radiator, Chip.”

“I know,” said Chip, wiping his face. “But it sings in Latin. “

We got Lex a little after eight. He was on the cot, in a black shirt, with his hair still wet, staring at a small black box in his lap. It was the size of a shoebox, lacquered, tied with a ribbon the color of dark wine. There was a card on top in a hand so neat it looked printed.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Nothing,” said Lex.