Taken aback, Wallace said, “Of course I do.” His expression hardened. “Did. Of course I did.” It rang false even to his own ears.

  Hugo brushed his hands against his apron as he stood slowly. “What did you like about it?” He continued on down the row of plants.

  Against his better judgment, Wallace followed him. “Doesn’t everyone like being alive?”

  “Most people, I think,” Hugo said. “I can’t speak for everyone. But you’re not most people, and no one else is here, which is why I’m asking you.”

  “What do you like about it?” Wallace asked, flinging the question back at him. He felt skittish, irritation growing.

  “Many things,” Hugo said easily. “The plants, for one. The earth beneath my feet. This place. It’s different here, and not just because of what I am or what I do. For a long time, I couldn’t breathe. I felt … stifled. Crushed. Like there was this weight on my shoulders and I didn’t know how to get it off.” He glanced back at Wallace. “Do you know what that feels like?”

  He did, but he wasn’t going to admit it here. Not now. Not ever. “You’re not my therapist.”

  Hugo shook his head. “No, I’m not. Not exactly qualified for something like that, though I do play the role now and then. It’s all part of the gig.”

  “The gig,” Wallace repeated.

  “Selling tea,” Hugo said. “People come in, and some of them don’t have any idea what they’re looking for. I try to get to know them, to find out what they’re all about before deciding on what kind of tea would be the best fit. It’s a process of discovery. I usually get it right, though not always.”

  “Peppermint,” Wallace said.

  “Peppermint,” Hugo agreed. “Did I get that right?”

  “You hadn’t even met me.”

  He shrugged. “I get a feeling, sometimes.”

  “A feeling.” Wallace did nothing to stop the scorn dripping from his words. “You have to know how that sounds.”

  “I do. But it’s just tea. Nothing to get so worked up about.”

  Wallace felt like screaming. “You got a feeling that told you peppermint.”

  “It did.” He stopped in front of another plant, crouching down and picking up dead leaves off the ground. He put them in a pocket on his apron with the utmost care, as if he was worried about crushing them. “Was it wrong?”

  “No,” Wallace said begrudgingly. “It wasn’t wrong.” He thought Hugo would ask him to explain, what the peppermint meant.

  He didn’t. “Good. I like to think I’m pretty spot-on, but as I said, it doesn’t always work. I try to be careful about it. You don’t want to end up missing the forest for the trees.”

  Wallace had no idea what that meant. Everything was topsy-turvy, and the hook in his chest was tugging again. He wanted to tear it out, consequences be damned. “I liked being alive. I want to be alive again.”

  “Kübler-Ross.”

  “What?”

  “There was a woman named Elisabeth Kübler-Ross. Have you ever heard of her?”

  “No.”

  “She was a psychiatrist—”

  “Oh dear god.”

  “A psychiatrist who studied death and near-death experiences. You know, you’re rising above your body toward a bright white light, though I expect it’s a little more complicated than that. A lot of it can be difficult to understand.” He rubbed his jaw. “Kübler-Ross talked about stuff like transcendence of ego and spatiotemporal boundaries. It’s complex. And I’m really not.”

  “You’re not?” Wallace asked incredulously.

  “Careful, Wallace,” Hugo said, lips quirking. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”

  “It wasn’t.”

  Hugo ignored him. “She was known for many things, but I think her biggest accomplishment was the Kübler-Ross model. Do you know what that is?”

  Wallace shook his head.

  “You probably do, though not by that name. And sure, some of the research since then doesn’t agree with her findings, but I think it’s a good place to start. It’s the five stages of grief.”

  Wallace wanted to go back inside. Hugo once again rose to his feet, turning to face him. He didn’t come any closer, but Wallace couldn’t move, mouth almost painfully dry. He was a tea plant, rooted in place, not yet mature enough to be harvested. The cable thrummed between them.

  Hugo said, “I’ve done this long enough to see how right she was. Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance. It’s not always in that order, and it’s not always every single step. Take you, for example. You seemed to skip right over denial. You’ve got the anger part down pat with a little bit of bargaining mixed in. Maybe more than a little bit.”

  Wallace stiffened. “That doesn’t sound like it’s for the dead. It’s for the people who are left behind. I can’t grieve for myself.”

  Hugo shook his head slowly. “Of course you can. We do it all the time, regardless of if we’re alive or not, over the small things and the big things. Everyone is a little bit sad all the time. Yes, Kübler-Ross was talking about the living, but it fits just as well for people like you. Maybe even better. I’ve often wondered what it was like for her, after she passed. If she went through it all herself, or if there were still surprises left to find. What do you think?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Okay,” Hugo said.

  “Okay?”

  “Sure. Do you like the plants?”

  Wallace glared at him. “They’re plants.”

  “Hush,” Hugo said. “Don’t let them hear you say that. They’re very sensitive.”

  “You’re out of your mind.”

  “I prefer to think of myself as eccentric.” His smile returned. “At least that’s what the people in town think of me. Some even believe this place is haunted.” He laughed to himself. Wallace was never one for noticing how people sounded when they laughed, but there was a first time for everything. It was a full-body thing for Hugo, low and deep.

  “That doesn’t bother you?”

  Hugo cocked his head. “No. Why would it? It’s true. You’re a ghost. Grandad and Apollo too. And you’re not the first, nor will you be the last. Charon’s Crossing is always haunted, though not like most people think. We don’t have anyone rattling chains or causing a ruckus.” He frowned. “Well, most of the time we don’t. Grandad can get a little ornery when the health inspector comes around, but usually we tend to avoid the trappings of a haunted house. It’d be bad for business.”

  “They’re still here,” Wallace said. “Nelson. Apollo.”

  Hugo stepped around him, heading back toward the house. He trailed his fingers along the tops of the tallest plants. They bent with his touch before snapping back upright. “They are.”

  Wallace followed him. “Why?”

  “I can’t speak for Grandad,” Hugo said. “You’ll have to ask him.”

  “I did.”

  Hugo glanced back, a look of surprise on his face. “What did he say?”

  “That it was none of my business.”

  “Sounds about right. He’s stubborn that way.”

  “And Apollo?”

  The dog barked at the sound of his name, guttural and sharp. He came bounding up one of the rows to their left. No dust or dirt rose when his paws hit the ground. He stopped near the porch, back arched, nose and whiskers twitching as he stared off into the dark forest. Wallace couldn’t see far, and it struck him how different the night was here compared to the city, the shadows almost alive, sentient.

  “I don’t know that I can answer that either,” Hugo said. Before Wallace could respond, he added, “Not because I don’t want to, but because I don’t know, exactly. Dogs don’t—they’re not like us. They’re … pure in a way we aren’t. I’ve never had another dog come here before, needing help to cross. I’ve heard stories of ferrymen and women whose job it is to handle certain animals, but that’s not what I do. I’d love it, though. Animals aren’t as complicated as people.”

  “Then why would he—” Wallace stopped. Then, “He was yours.”

  Hugo paused at the bottom of the steps. Apollo stared up at him adoringly, a goofy smile on his face, whatever had captured his attention in the trees forgotten. Hugo held his hand toward Apollo’s snout. The dog sniffed his fingers. “He was,” Hugo said quietly. “He is. He was a service dog. Or at least he tried to be. Failed most of his training, but that’s okay. I still love him all the same.”

  “Service dog?” Wallace asked. “Like for…” He didn’t know how to finish.

  “Oh, probably not like you’re thinking,” Hugo said. “I’m not a veteran. I don’t have PTSD.” He shrugged. “When I was younger, things were difficult. Days I could barely get myself out of bed. Depression, anxiety, a whole matter of diagnoses I didn’t know how to handle. There were doctors and medications and ‘Do this, Hugo, do that, Hugo, you’ll feel better if you just let yourself feel better, Hugo.’” He chuckled. “I was a different person then. I didn’t know what I know now, though it’ll always be part of me.” He nodded toward Apollo. “One day, I heard this little yipping outside my window. It was raining and had been for what felt like weeks. I almost ignored the sound I heard, wanting to pull the covers over my head and shut everything out. But something made me get up and go outside. I found this dog shivering under a bush on the side of my house, so emaciated, I could count his ribs through his skin. I picked him up and took him inside. I dried him off and fed him. He never left. Funny, right?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It’s okay not to know,” Hugo said. “We don’t know most things, and we never will. I don’t know how he came to be here, or where he came from. Thought he might make a good service dog. Seemed smart enough. And he was—is. Didn’t really take, though. He was too distracted by most everything, but who could blame him? Certainly not me, because he tried his best, and that’s all that matters. Turned out he was this … this part I didn’t know I was missing. He wasn’t the answer to everything, but it was a start. He lived a good life. Not as long as I would’ve liked, but still good.”

  “But he’s here.”

  “He is,” Hugo agreed.

  “Trapped here,” Wallace said, his hands curling into fists.

  Hugo shook his head. “No. He has a choice. I tried to lead him to the door at the top of the stairs time and time again. I told him it was okay to go to whatever’s next. That I would never forget him and would always be thankful for the time we had together. But he made his choice. Grandad made his choice.” He glanced back at Wallace. “You have a choice too, Wallace.”

  “Choice?” Wallace spat. “If I leave, I turn into one of those … those things. If I step foot outside this place, I turn into dust. And don’t even get me started on this ridiculous thing in my chest.” He looked down at the cable stretching between them. It flashed once. “What is this?”

  “Mei calls it the red thread of fate.”

  Wallace blinked. “It’s not red. Or a thread.”

  “I know,” Hugo said. “But it’s apt, I think. Mei said … how did she put it? Ah, right. In Chinese myth, the old gods tie a red thread around the ankles of those who are destined to meet, who are meant to help one another. It’s a pretty thought, isn’t it?”

  “No,” Wallace said bluntly. “It’s a shackle. A chain.”

  “Or it’s a tether,” Hugo said, not unkindly. “Though I know it doesn’t seem like that to you now. It keeps you grounded while you’re here. It helps me to find you if you’re ever lost.”

  That certainly didn’t make him feel any better. “What happens if I remove it?”

  Hugo looked grim. “You’ll float away.”

  Wallace was gobsmacked. “What?”

  “If you try to remove it while you’re on the grounds of the tea shop, you’ll … rise. And I don’t know if you’ll ever stop. But if you remove it off grounds, you begin to lose your humanity, flaking away until all that’s left is a shell.”

  Wallace spluttered. “That … that doesn’t make any sense! Who the hell makes up these rules?”

  Hugo shrugged. “The universe, I expect. It’s not a bad thing, Wallace. It helps me help you. And while you’re here, all I can do is show you your options, the choices laid out in front of you. To make sure you understand there’s nothing left for you to fear.”

  Wallace’s eyes stung. He blinked rapidly, unable to meet Hugo’s gaze. “You can’t say that. You don’t know what it’s like. It’s not fair.”

  “What isn’t?”

  “This!” Wallace cried, waving his arms around wildly. “All of it. Everything. I didn’t ask for this. I don’t want this. I have things to do. I have responsibilities. I have a life. How can you say I have a choice when it comes down to becoming like Cameron or going through your damn door?”

  “I guess the denial was there all along.”

  Wallace glared at him. “I don’t like you.” It was petulant and mean, but Wallace couldn’t bring himself to care.

  Hugo didn’t rise to the bait. “That’s okay. We’ll get there. I won’t force you into anything you don’t want to do. I’m here to guide you. All I ask is that you let me try.”

  Wallace swallowed past the lump in his throat. “Why do you care so much? Why do you do what you do? How do you do what you do? What’s the point of all of this?”

  Hugo grinned. “That’s a start. There might be hope for you yet.”

  And with that, he walked up the porch stairs, Apollo bounding up beside him. He stopped at the door, looking back at Wallace still standing amongst the tea leaves. “You coming?”

  Wallace hung his head and trudged up the stairs.

  * * *

  Hugo yawned as he closed the door behind them. He blinked sleepily, rubbing his jaw. Wallace could hear the clock in the front tick, tick, ticking. Before he’d fled the tea shop, the seconds had seemed lost, stuttering and stopping, stuttering and stopping. It sounded as if it’d smoothed out. It was normal again. Wallace didn’t know what that meant.

  “It’s late,” Hugo told him. “Our days start early here. Pastries needs to be baked, and tea needs time to steep.”

  Wallace felt awkward, unsure. He didn’t know what was supposed to happen next. “Fine. If you could show me to my room, I’ll let you be.”

  “Your room?”

  Wallace ground his teeth together. “Or give me a blanket and I can sleep on the ground.”

  “You don’t need to sleep.”

  Wallace flinched. “What?”

  Hugo stared at him curiously. “Have you slept since you died?”

  Well … no. He hadn’t. But there hadn’t been time. He’d been far too busy trying to make sense of all this drivel. The very idea of sleep hadn’t even crossed his mind, even when things had gotten a bit hazy and he’d found himself at his own funeral. And then Mei had shown up and dragged him to this place. So, no. He hadn’t slept. “I had things to do.”

  “Of course you did. Are you tired?”

  He wasn’t, which was strange. He should’ve been exhausted. With everything that had happened, he expected to be drained and moving sluggishly. But he wasn’t. He’d never felt more awake. “No,” he muttered. “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “You’re dead,” Hugo reminded him. “I think you’ll find sleep is the least of your worries from here on out. In all my years as a ferryman, I’ve never come across a sleeping ghost. That would be something new. You could try, I suppose. Let me know how that works out.”

  “So what am I supposed to do?” Wallace demanded. “Stand here and wait for you to wake up?”

  “You could,” Hugo said. “But there are more comfortable places for you to wait.”

  Wallace scowled at him. “You’re not funny.”

  “A little,” Hugo said. “You can do whatever you want, so long as you don’t leave the grounds of the tea shop. I’d rather not have to chase after you again.”

  “Whatever I want?”

  “Sure.”

  For the first time since he’d arrived in the tea shop, Wallace smiled.

  * * *

  “Mei.”

  “G’way.”

  “Mei.”

  “Time ’zit.”

  “Mei. Mei. Mei.”

  She sat up in her bed, the blankets falling around her waist. She wore an oversized shirt with the face of Friedrich Nietzsche printed on it. She jerked her head back and forth before settling on Wallace, standing in the corner of her room. “What? What is it? What’s wrong? Are we under attack?”

  “No,” Wallace said. “What are you doing?”

  She stared at him. “I’m trying to sleep.”

  “Oh, really? How’s that working out for you?”

  She started to frown. “Not well.”

  “Did you know I can’t sleep ever again?”

  “Yes,” she said slowly.

  He nodded. “Good.” He turned around and walked through the wall out of her room.

  * * *

  “Oooooh!” he moaned as loudly as he could. “Ooooooooh!” He paced up and down the hall of the bottom floor, a little perturbed that he couldn’t seem to stomp his feet no matter how hard he tried. He banged his hands on the walls, but he kept almost falling through. Which is why he found himself bellowing out every ghost noise he’d ever heard in horror movies. He was disappointed he had no chains to clank. “I’m deaaaad. Deaaaaaaaad! Woe is meeee.”

  “Would you shut up!” Mei shouted from her room.

  “Make me!” he bellowed back, and then redoubled his efforts.

  * * *

  Wallace continued on for sixteen more minutes before he took a cane upside the head.

  “Ow!” he cried, rubbing the back of his skull. He whirled around to see Nelson standing before him, brow furrowed. “What was that for?”

  “Are you going to behave? If not, I can do it again.”

  He reached for Nelson’s cane, meaning to take it from him and toss it away, only to come up with nothing, taking a stumbling step forward where Nelson had stood before he’d disappeared into thin air.

  Wallace’s eyes bulged as he looked around the empty tea shop wildly. “Um,” he said. “Hello? Where … where did you go?”