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“Middle Guy dared Left Guy to down an entire package of hot dogs, which he did,” Dulcie says.
“That was some stunt you pulled today,” I say, stretching. “You almost got us killed.”
“But I didn’t.”
“But you could have.”
“But. I. Didn’t.”
Right Guy drops a log into the fire drunkenly. It hisses and sparks.
“Whatever,” I say. “Thanks.”
“For what?”
“For saving me back there at the Food Court of Despair.”
“You’re welcome.”
“This has been one hell of a trip, man.”
“Yuppers.” She tilts her face toward the night sky and smiles in that way that makes her so very Dulcie.
“Beautiful,” I mumble.
“What?”
“Oh. Um. The stars. Beautiful.”
“Yeah,” she says. “For ghosts.” She sucks a jelly bean in her back teeth. “It takes millions of years for that light to reach us. By the time we see it, that star’s probably dead and gone.”
“Wow. Way to kill the mood.”
One of her eyebrows lifts. “Did we have a mood?”
“Um, no. Not, I mean, not a mood mood.”
“Hmph.” Dulcie loops an arm around my shoulders. It’s warm and nice. “How ’bout this, then? Somewhere out in the galaxy, right this minute, there’s a big ball of gas and gravity heating up, pressing together, forming something new and bold and awesome, until finally, it can’t take it anymore, and it spits out all this energy, just sending that light out into the universe. Schoooom!” She swooshes her other arm through the air and goes kapow with her fingers. “Even stars gotta leave home, see things, go places. Better?”
“Better,” I say.
“What we’re seeing right now is a twinkling farewell concert: Thanks—you’ve been great. Drive safe, now.”
I laugh. “‘Drive safe, now’? Really? That’s what they’ve got to say?”
“Mmmm.” Dulcie nods. “Stars. Twinkly, yet surprisingly considerate.”
I can’t seem to stop myself from taking hold of her other hand. I lace my fingers through hers and rub my thumb over her palm. The skin there is rough, calloused, like she’s been hitting it against something hard. “What happened here?”
She slips her hand out of mine. “Nothing,” she says, frowning.
I don’t know what I’ve said. I’ve just started to ask when Left Guy moans louder and rolls onto his side like he’s in pain.
“Is he okay? Should we do something?”
Dulcie waves it away. “He’s fine. He’s going to blow chow in about twenty minutes, but he’s not going to die.”
“I don’t know. He doesn’t look so good to me.”
