Sunset. It was time again for the Parade of Specters. Spooks is all. Painful.

This time he brought someone reasonable along to watch the spectacle, wheelchair bound as well; therefore, a seasoned pragmatist, a real killjoy with twenty-twenty vision, the very personification of Truth. He came equipped with a sack of sand pebbles. Not the dust. That’s the sleepy kind. No matter, really. Everybody passing through is thought to be already dead.

Nobody on the other side understands the gut wretch associated with this particular sickness; it damn near dissipated him a couple weeks ago. Folks lead him along throughout the day, passed him around like a boneless rag doll. Salutations of “you don’t look so good” isn’t the banal phrase one needs to hear first thing in the morning.

Here it comes again. It’s hard to describe what he’s seeing. Something just reached out and snatched his practical companion away with them. He wouldn’t have believed it if not for the drag marks left in the snake grass before they split him apart at the waist.

Why couldn’t she wait for him? Why didn’t you wait for me?

The reasonable one is gone. He looks down at the frumpy sack of sand pebbles. It gives him an idea. He zings one at a specter, and it passes through its shoulder, leaving little rings of ghost smoke in its wake. Somehow, it makes him feel better. He does it again with the same soothing resolution.

“Hey!” he shouts aloud. “I can not follow you right now. Do you hear me?”

The entourage stops in its tracks, marching momentarily at a standstill.

Encouraged, he continues, “The Time isn’t right. Can’t you wait for me?”

Why did she hurt him? Why are you hurting me?

Although the parade of specters continues, and it’s tearing him apart; he’s not going to move, until she gives him her word.