I sat next to a girl on the bus, thin and blond. She was reading a paperback. “Where are you going?” I asked. She glanced at me. “What?” “I’m going to Albany,” I said. “What’s in Albany?” she said. I laughed. “Not much. My mother died. That’s why I’m going to Albany.” She went back to her book. “That’s why I’m going there,” I said. The bus was passing through countryside, a low ridge of wooded hills on one side, on the other a swampy field with scrub brush, a few bare trees. “I’m sorry about your mother,” she said, not looking up from the page. “It’s all right,” I said. “She was old. Her time had come.” “No one’s time has come,” she said. She looked at me. Clear, gray blue eyes, like I’d fallen through the sky on a winter’s day. “Who reaches the end?” she said. “What gets finished? There are moments. That’s about it.” “My name’s Chip,” I said. “Jim. James, really.” She turned on her side away from me. I …

“I don’t believe in ghosts.” “Why?” “Because it doesn’t make any sense.” “What?” “Everything.” “About ghosts?” “No, everything about everything.” “OK, so you’re saying you don’t believe in anything?” “Kind of, but mostly ghosts.” “So you like to pick on ghosts?” “They just never appear.” “They do to a lot of people.” “But people who are drunk. Or high. Or a little stupid.” “My Dad saw a ghost.” “Well, he was probably drunk.” “He doesn’t drink.” “Or high.” “He doesn’t get high.” “Well, I’m just saying that I don’t care about ghosts. There’s other things. Like wars.” “Which turn people into ghosts.” “Yeah, they would. If ghosts were real, but ghosts are nothing. You know how someone says they’re going to ‘ghost’ you. What’s that mean? It means you’ll never hear from them again. That’s what ghosts are. Just nothingness. They bore me.” “That’s probably why they don’t appear to you.” “Why? Ghosts only like to appear to people who get scared?” “I’ll give an example. I used to work at a haunted house. Years …