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His fingers crushed themselves into a fist, driving his dirty-looking nails into his palm. He barely felt it. He had to watch himself squeeze the knuckles tight or else he wouldn’t have believed it. Nothing felt like anything. Something told him that if he ran his head into the nearest oak, it wouldn’t matter to either the tree or his skull.

A loud, sudden laugh from the nearby party reminded him why he was doing this.

Find someone to tell.

Forget the rest. Hold it together long enough to talk.

Between the branches he spied a flapping white tablecloth trimmed with red and blue. A stray napkin swayed to the grass, and a high-heeled shoe stabbed it into the earth. An older woman in a powder-blue suit bent her knee and plucked the napkin away. She turned to a man beside her and accepted a very thin plate loaded with brightly colored food. Behind them, there were twenty or so rows of chairs lined up neatly, and most of these chairs were occupied by other people with similar plates of food.

If he could read, then the banner hanging over the gathering might have told him something helpful, or then again, it might have only confused him. He wondered what it said. One word looked familiar; it was a long word beginning with a “C. ” He felt he ought to recognize it, but he didn’t; so he decided not to dwell on it. Letters had never been his strong suit.

It didn’t matter, anyway. He’d found the party he was looking for, and they were a promising bunch of folks. They were older, so some of them were bound to be respectable; but they were not so old that others wouldn’t take them seriously.

The longer he watched, the more certain he became. Yes. These people would listen. He skirted the edge of the clearing, darting from tree to tree, drawing closer, trying to see their faces.

One man in particular looked like a promising contact. He had a certain leanness in his cheeks, and a slouch that struck the ghost as be

ing familiar in some unspecific, mostly forgotten way. This man was standing beside a woman with bright blond hair that sat immobile on her head like a round yellow crown. She scratched at her wedding ring and tugged at her cuff while the thin-faced man talked to two other men.

The lurking shade closed his eyes and thought hard, willing his form as close to solid as he could come. He forced himself to recall as much detail as he could, conjuring up the dull gray jacket and with it the tarnished buttons, the shapeless pants, and his badly battered cap.

When he was dressed, and when he was as ready as he could make himself, he stepped forward into the sunny patch of grass.

At first, no one noticed.

He was still a few yards from the group, so he drew himself closer to them, nearer to the one who had caught his attention. The ghost moved with care, so as not to startle them. He fixed his eyes on the thin, casually slumping man with the bored-looking wife and pulled himself towards the neat forest of metal chairs.

The wife spotted him first.

He knew she saw him—she froze her idle scratching and polite, agreeable nodding to stare directly at him. The ghost paused, not wanting to frighten her into a scream.

To her credit, she did not cry out. Her eyes widened and her head cocked to the right, but she lifted her hand to her lips and covered them up as if she wasn’t sure what might pass through.

“Evan,” she breathed between her fingers.

“Dear?” her husband answered fast from the middle of his conversation. He dropped the syllable without looking at her.

“Oh, Evan,” she repeated, this time reaching out to touch his arm. “My God, but look at him. ”

“What?”

“Look at him. Look at him, Evan. Doesn’t he look like—”

Evan sighed and turned from his group. “Look at who, darling?”

“Him. ”

The figure in question stretched himself up to his full height, and held up his chin. He assumed a stance of formal attention and waited.

Throughout the gathering, all the small conversations dried up and all the happily chatting faces went limp. Evan dropped his plastic glass. It toppled to the grass with a splash and a thud, spilling purple punch across his new shoes—though he wouldn’t notice the stain for days.

Satisfied that he had everyone’s full, undivided attention, the ghost opened his mouth. But no sound followed. Frustrated, he closed his mouth and opened it again.

Still, nothing.

Just two words, he swore to himself. Why can’t I say it?

He shook his head and tried a third time, but he couldn’t utter a single, raspy gasp. It made him angry: All that preparation, all that effort, and all that trouble, and here he was, right where he’d meant to go, but he couldn’t tell them a damn thing. And to make things worse, he could feel his hold slipping. It would not be long before he lost control over the people’s shocked silence and his own physical form.