I dreamed that I was dead but somehow still conscious. Capable of movement and self-direction, still a subject of gravity, still capable of existential fatigue. But dead. No pulse, no heartbeat, couldn’t fog a mirror. I want to make clear that I had not become a zombie or vampire or a hunched and hair-handed lycanthrope lurching from shadow to shadow in search of some revenge on the living. No, I was a listless undead that possessed a cooling physical form, growing ever more pale, gaunt, and emaciated. I moved through the narrow halls of a rooming house that possessed very little in the way of furniture. Squat wooden side tables, a fatigued futon on the floor, pink drapes pinned to the window panes sagging with dust and neglect. Floor boards warped but it didn’t matter because I was looking for Jordyn and it didn’t matter anymore what the circumstances of his existence happened to be. I was there to bring him home and even as a ghost I would achieve my aim.