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THE SCARS ON my wrists were still pink when you strolled into my tent and claimed you could taste the Dead. That if you cooked their food, they’d come back.

Did I believe you, Stan? Would you have believed you?

But then you did taste it. The one thing that could’ve changed my mind. That Reese’s was a message in a crimped paper cup: I’m still here, Maura. Don’t you care?

I was terrified. Too freaked out to think clearly. I couldn’t mess with Death again. Couldn’t afford more mistakes. And you seemed clueless and reckless and determined to play with fire. So I warned you to stop. I scared you away.

Only, once you left, I read your cards. They said you were the real thing. And that we weren’t through yet. I started thinking I’d been hasty. That there might be something to what you were doing, bringing spirits here instead of going there to find them. That maybe you could help me. That your food could help Everleigh. But by the time I swallowed my pride and rushed out to find you, you were gone.

I spent weeks tracking you down.

I posted on Missed Connections. Cold-called hundreds of numbers. And then on Instagram, this influencer posted something strange—food and ghosts. A restaurant. I barely let myself believe, but there I was, messaging her for your address.

I took the train to Hell’s Kitchen, thinking how to explain things without seeming totally unhinged. But when I got there, there was red tape everywhere. A Notice of Closure from the Health Department. And you, sitting on the stoop, staring at your phone. Sobbing.

I left that night to give you space, only now that I knew where you lived, I couldn’t stay away. I kept coming back, looking for an opening. I followed you to Frankie’s funeral. To the candlelight vigil. To the grocery store.

It wasn’t pretty; I stalked you.

It’s like that old Snickers ad. You’re not yourself when you’re Hungry? They have no idea.

And then you went to Last Rites. I know Cal—he did the art on my ribs—and I know that after a drink or two, he gets chatty. I took him out, got him to give me the appointment right after yours. I didn’t know you’d have that reaction to the ink, but I was grateful you did. Reading your palm broke the ice.

And then we were walking through Soho, and you were nice, so much nicer than I deserved, and I kept trying to work up the nerve to tell you what I’d come there to say. To ask for your help. To explain about the Hunger, and my sister. To apologize for what a jerk I’d been.

But I got cold feet. I was too afraid you’d freak out and tell me to fuck off. And I couldn’t risk that. You were my best chance to see Everleigh again. Maybe my only shot to stop the Hunger. And there was something else. Something more.

Being around you—it was the first time in months I didn’t feel like I was starving. Talking to you, touching your hand—it fed something in me. And maybe it was just your proximity to Death that did it, but it felt like so much more. Like everything.

By the end of the night, I didn’t fight it.

When I kissed you, the Hunger—it was like you smothered the flame. I felt a shiver of life again, like I could be more than a vampire, a zombie, this Hungry, Hungry Ghost. I took you home because I didn’t want to let that feeling go. And what happened when we slept together—it changed things.

I died in your arms.

One moment, your eyes were fixed on mine, intense as stars. The next, I was back in the Afterlife.

On a food tour.

The guide was gorgeous. Tall. Dark. With curly black hair and dimples that spelled trouble. He barely looked dead.

It took me a minute to recognize him from his funeral portrait. Frankie.

Spirits gathered round him, pressing closer, straining to hear.

No need to push, fam , he was saying. Plenty of room! If you’re here about the tour—the Konstantin Duhovny Culinary Experience—gather round.

And there you were, Stan! An Afterlife experience in your honor, before you even—as far as I know—managed to die. Frankie was explaining about your food. How it was special, what it could do. How it could feed us like nothing else could.

You looking for Aftertastes? He lowered his voice. A way to see the folks who been holding you back? That’s just what my guy does.

A ripple moved through the crowd. Through me, and every other spirit there. The Hunger, I realized. We all had it.

And I understood what Frankie was really promising.

A reunion. A cure.

What you can do, Stan? That closure you offer the Living? The Dead need it, too.

It’s all connected , Frankie was saying. Our Hunger, their grief. Moving On, and letting go. Living and the Dead.

And you, Stan, your food, were the link between it all.

I hung on his every word, desperate to understand. I tried. But I was fading. Losing my grip.

Then I woke up beside you. Shivering. Laughing.

Asking for more.

At first, it was all I wanted.

To sleep with you again. To let your hands, your mouth, your body, take me to the other side. To die without worrying about the consequences.

I started thinking I didn’t need you to raise Everleigh. That I could just go back and find her myself. That I could take that tour and feed my own Hunger.

I told myself it’d be easier that way. Cleaner. You wouldn’t even have to know.

Except then I fell in love with you.

I had all those leftovers after Ev, so much love and no one to feed it to. And there you were, fork in hand. I never imagined what we would become. What you would mean to me. More than a friend, or a partner, or a lover.

Everything, Stan. You are everything.

And I’m so, so sorry for what I made you do.