Stranded

by Ben Barrett

Kenny, Cartman and Butters are on their high school senior trip, driving across the country. When the car breaks down in the wilderness not far from South Park, Kenny meets a kid named Stan Marsh. But Stan is not all that he appears to be. He's hiding something. And when Kenny discovers the truth, it is the last thing he was ever expecting. AU. Oneshot. Style.

A Note From Ben: Total AU story. This one came into my head pretty much fully formed. I left some scenes out of the ending because I felt they were unnecessary, but the rest of it is there. I hope you read all the way to the end. You won't see the end coming, unless you're very astute.

---

Stranded
by Ben Barrett

It's only forever
Not long at all
Lost and lonely
That's underground
Underground

Daddy, daddy, get me out of here
Ha ha, I'm underground
Heard about a place today
Nothing never hurts again
-Underground, David Bowie

It wasn't supposed to happen like this. Senior trips were supposed to be awesome, fun times where you make memories that last you your whole life. On the road with your friends, seeing different places and cutting up. Kenny had dreamed about it his entire four years of high school, making plans and filling entire notebooks with ideas. He hadn't always had a lot of money growing up and had actually been ridiculed as the poorest kid in town, but he'd saved every penny he could afford to save from his job bagging groceries at the local supermarket. He had been determined to make this trip a reality, to end his public education with a grand send-off.

So why was he now stranded on the side of the road somewhere in Colorado? Pauper's Luck. His father had always had this belief in something called Pauper's Luck in which the forces of the universe work together to not only keep poor people down, but to kick them when they're on the ground. A man trying to beat his alcoholism and feed his starving family will work his ass off at the local mill, only to be fired for no reason whatsoever. A single mother living in the ghetto will suddenly come into a lot of money, which will either be taken from her by the government or stolen. Food stamps cut for no logical reason. Perfectly fine cars that break down and can't be repaired for less than the cost of getting a new car. Kenny seemed to be suffering from this Pauper's Luck tonight, because the car that he had bought shortly before taking this trip was now sitting on the shoulder, belching smoke from beneath the hood.

"This is crap," he said, looking at the engine. It was shot beyond all hope. He and his friends would probably be cutting this trip short and taking the bus back to California.

"I told you this car was a lemon, dude," Cartman said, looking at the engine as if he knew what the fuck he was doing. Cartman had never so much as changed a tire, so Kenny thought it was stupid that he was even standing there. "You should have bought the red one."

"Dude," Kenny replied, "the red one was about $5000 more. I don't know how many times I have to explain that to you. Do you not understand simple mathematics, or are you fucking dyslexic?"

"Uh, I don't think we should be fighting," Butters said, standing off to one side, wringing his hands. "That's not gonna get us anywhere, fellas."

"Shut up, Butters," Cartman said, not bothering to even look at him. "Go be a fag somewhere else."

Kenny slammed the hood closed, almost smashing Cartman's fingers in the process. Cartman barely got his hands away in time. He fell back with an indignant cry and glared at Kenny.

"You stupid piece of gutter filth," he snarled. "Watch what the fuck you're doing."

Kenny ignored him and pulled out his cell phone. No signal out here. Of course. It's not like he could afford quality cell phone service. He had purchased a cut rate ghetto phone at Walmart shortly before taking the trip with the intention of using it in case there was an emergency. Now that there was, of course it didn't work. Pauper's Luck.

"Someone is going to have to walk to the nearest town and get help," Kenny said. "Unless one of you has a phone with service?"

"Not me," Cartman said. "My mahm took my phone months ago and told me I'd get it back when I brought my grades up. Bitch."

"And my parents don't trust me with a phone," Butters added. "They think I'll get into shenanigans with it."

"Shenanigans?" Cartman asked, raising an amused eyebrow.

"Y-yeah," Butters said. "It's what my dad said. He said, uuh, 'Butters, I will never give you a cell phone or let you buy one. Cell phones always lead to shenanigans.'"

"That's fucking great," Kenny said. "Well, like I said, someone needs to walk to town and get help."

Cartman looked like Kenny had suggested that they strip off their clothes and have a gay orgy in the middle of the road.

"There's no way," he sputtered. "Town could be miles away. You expect me to walk that far?"

"Unless you have a better idea?" Kenny retorted. "The truth is, I can't leave because it's my car. If someone comes by with a tow truck or something, I need to be here. If the cops show up wanting to know what's going on, the owner of the car should probably be present. It seems unlikely that either of those things are going to happen, but it's possible. Besides, you might not have to walk all the way to town. Take my cell phone and keep an eye on it. If you get to a place where you can pick up a signal, call for help and then walk back."

In truth, Kenny was hoping this would be the case. He knew that if he talked Cartman into going, Butters would go with him, because for some reason the little twat had been following Cartman like a puppy since seventh grade. That meant that he was going to be alone on this dark and deserted road, and it was hella creepy. There was forest towering over them on both sides, and there was an overgrown path leading into the trees and out of sight not far from the car. He didn't even want to know where that path went. He wasn't afraid of the dark, because growing up in the ghetto he knew that the real monsters were often human, but something about this place made him uneasy. He felt like he was being watched by someone.

"Fine," Cartman said, snatching the phone from his hand, "but I want you to know how seriouslah pissed I am at you right now. I'm seriouslah. You brought me on this stupid trip promising me chicks, and there haven't been any chicks, have there, Kenny? Just that creepy old redneck back at the gas station in Nevada who kept eying us like he wanted to ravage our assholes, and now this goddamn deserted road in the middle of the night. You are such a dick."

He walked off, muttering about how Kenny was going to get a serious kick in the nuts when this was all over, and of course Butters went with him, leaving him standing there alone in the dark. When they were gone, he went to the trunk and pulled out a flashlight and grabbed his dad's revolver (which he had taken without permission) from under the driver's seat. He stood there by the car, jerking the gun toward every little sound. If an owl hooted, Kenny pointed the gun at it. If a cricket chirped, Kenny pointed the gun. He was on edge and very nervous. The longer he stood here, the stronger that feeling of being watched grew, and he did not like it.

Somewhere in the woods, a twig snapped and he lost it. He jumped into the car and locked all of the doors. He was probably being ridiculous, but he didn't care. He hated this place. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on happier thoughts. He thought of his sunny home in California, where he had experienced so much. He had learned to surf there, had learned to smoke there (not necessarily tobacco, either), and had lost his virginity there. He had enjoyed his night with the girl. As she had slid up and down on his member, he had been moaning as much as she was. He had been fourteen at the time (she had been sixteen, and man she had had some nice titties), and barely old enough to know what he was doing, but he had enjoyed it immensely. As he had grown older, he had had other experiences, some not quite so heterosexual. He identified more as a bisexual these days, though he would never admit that to anyone, especially Cartman, who would never let him live it down. Fuck him, though. He just didn't understand how much he liked to fuck. Regardless of who it was with.

He fell asleep thinking about this, though he hadn't meant to. He slept restlessly, not even falling into a deep enough sleep to dream. He didn't know how long he had been out or how long Cartman and Butters had been gone, as he no longer had a way to tell time. Cartman had his cell phone and the dashboard clock had never been the most reliable before the car blew up. He just knew as soon as he opened his eyes that he was being watched by someone. This wasn't just a general feeling like he was being watched. Someone was watching him, and they were very close. He slowly turned his head toward the driver's side window and saw a boy with black hair standing outside the car. When Kenny looked at him, he smiled and waved. Where the fuck had this guy come from and why the hell was he way out here in the middle of nowhere? He had a bad feeling about this, and at first just sat there with the window up and the door locked. There was no way in hell he was going to put himself in a position for some nut in the wilderness to kill him.

The boy was persistent, though. He kept gesturing for him to roll the window down.

"I won't hurt you," he said. "I promise. I'm just here to help."

"Forgive me for not taking your word for it," Kenny said. "If you want to help, call a tow truck."

"No phones out this far," the other boy said. "But I know something about engines. Pop the hood and I'll take a look."

Kenny sighed and looked down at the revolver in his lap. He supposed he could at least let the guy look at the engine. He still felt uneasy, though. Something about this boy didn't seem right. There was something different about him, something Kenny couldn't put his finger on. He'd felt it from the moment he'd caught sight of him. He was glad now he'd brought the gun. If he got stupid, Kenny could shoot him. Self-defense. He pulled the lever and popped the hood.

By the time he got out of the car, the other boy was already leaning over the engine, clucking his tongue.

"I see what happened," he said.

When Kenny stepped up next to him, the boy took a cautious step away, as if Kenny was going to hurt him.

"When was the last time you changed the oil in this car?" the boy asked.

"The last guy who owned it told me he'd changed it right before he sold it to me, so I didn't bother," Kenny replied. "I just bought it two weeks ago."

"Yeah, he was a liar," the boy said. "The oil in this car hasn't been changed in a long time. Your car is locked up. Gonna cost a fortune to fix, especially in town."

"How far is town from here?" Kenny asked. "I sent my friends ahead to get help. How long will it take them to get there?"

"Not sure," the boy said, pushing his black hair from his eyes. "It's been a long time since I was in town. Best I can remember, it's quite a few miles away. At least ten."

"Crap," Kenny said. "And Cartman is a big fat fuck. It'll take him twice as long as a normal person to walk that far, because he'll probably take several rests."

"May as well get comfortable," the boy said with a shake of his head. "You're going to be here for awhile. But hey, if you want I can keep you company while you wait. I don't really have anything else to do."

"Do you live around here?" Kenny asked. His unease of the mysterious boy had abated a little, though there was still something tugging at the back of his mind, telling him there was something not quite right about any of this. This feeling got stronger when the boy pointed down the dark and overgrown path.

"I've got a little piece of ground back that way," he said, "though it's really not much to look at. Kinda lonely and depressing, actually. Used to get visitors from town from time to time who would come and check up on me, talk to me and stuff. They don't really do that anymore. They either forgot I'm out here or just got busy with whatever it is that people in town do."

"What about your parents?" Kenny replied. "I mean, you don't look any older than I am, uh, what was your name again?"

"Never offered it to you to begin with, so there's not really any 'again'," the boy said with a smirk. "Name's Stan Marsh."

"I'm Kenny McCormick," Kenny said, offering his hand. Stan looked at it, but did not take it. "Afraid to shake hands or something, Stan? Where I come from, refusing to shake someone's hand is considered rude."

"Nothing personal," Stan said. "I just prefer not to make physical contact. Call me a nut."

This did not ease Kenny's mind. This boy was odd at the very least.

"All right," Kenny said. "Well, I'm going to get in the car. This mountain air is kind of chilly. You're welcome to climb in and join me, I guess. You're weird, man, but I guess having someone to talk to is better than sitting here in the dark by myself. Just remember, if you're thinking of doing anything stupid, I do carry a revolver."

To emphasize the point, Kenny pulled the gun from his pocket, where he'd been fingering it nervously the whole time, and gave the cylinder a spin. Stan looked at it, completely unaffected, then shrugged.

"I'm not worried about your revolver," he said in a deadpan. "Besides, you have nothing to fear from me. I'm as harmless as a ghost. A little weird to be around at first, but ultimately harmless."

Kenny looked at him for a second, then shrugged and climbed into the car. He sat there for a bit, waiting for Stan to get in. When he made no move to do so, Kenny threw the passenger door open and called out to him.

"If you're waiting for another invitation, you can forget it," he said. "I'm not going to get down on my knees and beg you to get in."

Stan stood there in the darkness for a moment, then climbed into the passenger seat, where he sat staring straight ahead. Kenny couldn't help but notice that he hadn't closed the door behind him, as if he was afraid of Kenny and needed the way open to get away if anything untoward went down.

"So tell me about yourself," Kenny said. "Tell me about Stan Marsh."

"What do you want to know?" Stan asked, still staring straight ahead. He was so statue still that Kenny wondered if he was even breathing. Obviously he was because he was talking, but his lack of movement was unsettling.

"Just tell me about you," Kenny replied. "Where were you born? How old are you? When is your birthday? What do you do for fun? You know, the stuff that makes you you."

"The stuff that makes me me," Stan said. "It's funny how little that stuff means in the long run, doesn't it? I mean, you ask someone what their interests are, what they like to do for fun, who their friends are, what they want to grow up to be. When people die, all of that stuff is summed up by a little dash on a headstone, you know? I mean, there's a rock with your name on it, followed by two dates. The first is the day you were born, the second is the day you died. Between them is a little dash. That little dash encompasses everything you were, everything you tried to be, all your accomplishments, all your failures."

"Geez, man," Kenny said, rolling his eyes. "You're a real drag, aren't you? I just asked you tell me about yourself, not give me a lecture on the cruelty of death."

"Sorry," Stan mumbled. "I've just lost some people who were really important to me, and it kinda bothers me that their whole lives are summed up by a name, two dates and a dash. Depresses me pretty bad, actually. But since you asked, my full name is Stanley William Marsh. My grandfather used to call me 'Billy' because of my middle name. God, I hated it when he'd do that. I used to tell him, 'My name isn't Billy, it's Stan' and he'd look at me and say 'Kill me, Billy'. It used to bug the hell out of me, but now I'd give anything to hear him say it again."

"Your grandfather died?" Kenny asked.

"Yeah, a long time ago," Stan replied. "So did my parents. I think my sister is still alive, but I don't see her anymore. She used to come and see me, but she moved away somewhere. The last time I saw her, she said to me 'I love you, turd. I'm sorry I won't be able to come and see you anymore. I'm getting married and moving east.' She didn't tell me where in the east she was going. I tried to tell her that I understood, that I loved her just the same, but I might as well have not been speaking at all."

"Why do you say that?" Kenny asked, pulling a cigarette from his pack. "You don't mind if I smoke, do you?"

"No, I don't mind," Stan said. "Cigarette smoke doesn't bother me. As for Shelley, my sister, I said that I might as well have not been speaking because my words had no affect on her. She just kept crying and telling me she was sorry."

"She must really love you," Kenny said.

"I guess," Stan muttered, turning his head toward the overgrown forest path. He was quiet for a long time, and Kenny sat in the silence, puffing on his cigarette and watching him. He was becoming more comfortable with him, but he still didn't want to take his eyes off of him. For some reason, he couldn't shake the feeling that not everything was as it appeared to be when it came to Stan. There was something really bugging him, though he couldn't figure out what it was. It was like there was a warning light going off in his brain, indicating that there were strange things afoot, that there were signs so obvious that he should be able to pinpoint what was going on with ease, yet his mind refused to latch onto what those signs were.

"Tell me, Kenny," Stan said after several minutes. Kenny had already flicked one cigarette and had lit up another. "Have you ever loved someone so much that it hurt? Have you ever been so in love that the love inside you threatened to consume you?"

"Uh," Kenny stammered. He wasn't sure if he wanted to be having this conversation with someone he'd only known for an hour at the most. "That's kind of personal, isn't it?"

"I don't think so," Stan answered. "I'm not asking you to tell me about your sex life. I'm just asking you if you've ever been in love."

"No," Kenny said. It was the truth. He had never met anyone who had made his heart flutter or his stomach knot up. He had been sexual with some people, but his feelings for these people had not gone further than simple infatuation. Some he had been completely apathetic towards and had only been with them for cheap kicks. Sad but true.

"I have," Stan said, still staring up at that damn path. "I was once deeply in love with someone. Once."

"Doesn't sound like it ended too well," Kenny said. He didn't want to out-and-out ask him what happened, especially since he'd already chided Stan for asking personal questions.

"No, it didn't," Stan replied, and there was deep sorrow in his voice. He sounded on the verge of tears. "It didn't end well at all."

Kenny felt awkward. Stan was obviously reliving some kind of deeply personal memory that caused him pain, but he didn't know him well enough to be able to play the part of the supportive friend. He didn't know what to do. He was a soft-hearted guy and felt bad for Stan, but at the same time didn't know if he wanted to get involved in the business of a person he would probably never see again. This ultimately decided it for him. The fact that he would never seen Stan again after tonight made Kenny a neutral party, which made it okay for him to at least try and listen. Kind of like a psychiatrist.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked.

"You really care?" Stan replied, finally turning from the path and looking back at him. "I mean, you don't know me. Do my problems really mean anything to you?"

"I don't know about it meaning anything to me," Kenny admitted. "I mean, obviously you don't know me and I don't know you and we'll probably never see each other again, but I'm willing to listen if you want to get it off your chest."

Stan looked away again. His attention returned to the path, which he seemed to be quite fixated on. He ran a hand through his hair and began:

"His name was Kyle. Yeah, I know that's unnatural and all-"

"I didn't say that," Kenny cut in.

"-but I loved him just the same," Stan continued as if Kenny hadn't spoken. "I loved him with my whole heart and soul. I would have done anything for him. It's funny. Do you want to hear about how we met?"

"Sure."

"Kyle came to my town when we were both nine years old. He came from Germany, so he didn't speak much English. I took him under my wing and tried to help him fit in and learn the language. He became my best friend. When we turned fifteen, he became my lover as well. He could speak English almost as well as any other American kid by then, so it wasn't hard for us to communicate. I used to tell him I loved him every day. He would always tell me 'Ich liebe dich' in return, which means 'I love you' in German."

"That's sweet," Kenny said, smiling.

"Yeah," Stan said. "Sweet."

"So what happened?"

"He, um... he died."

"Oh, my God," Kenny gasped. Suddenly Stan's earlier rant about a person's life being reduced to a dash on a tombstone was a lot more understandable. "That's awful."

"Yeah, it is," Stan said. He sounded more heartbroken than any person Kenny had ever spoken to. Kenny reached out to put a comforting hand on his shoulder. Even though Stan wasn't looking at him, Stan jumped away as if he were burned before Kenny could get anywhere near him and leaped from the car.

"What's wrong?" Kenny asked. "I didn't mean-"

"I'm sorry, I have to go," Stan said, looking through the open door at him. It was odd how sad he sounded, yet there were no tears in his eyes. "Your friends should be here soon. Thank you for listening."

With that, he turned and ran up the path and was swallowed up by the darkness. Kenny, despite his earlier reservations about Stan (and his current reservations about the creepy overgrown path), jumped out of the car and chased after him. The path was choked with weeds and rocks and it was hard to find his way in the dark. How had Stan gotten so far so fast? He could hear him some distance away, screaming in sorrow and repeating over and over again how sorry he was. He seemed to be speaking to Kyle, as several times he said "Please forgive me, Kyle. I love you. Forgive me."

Kenny was trying his hardest to follow Stan's voice, but it was becoming increasingly perilous. He really lived out here? No wonder people didn't come to visit him anymore. He stopped when he realized that the unfamiliar setting and the oppressive darkness had caused him to lose his way. To make matters worse, Stan had fallen silent so he couldn't follow his voice anymore. He hoped Stan hadn't done something to hurt himself, but he couldn't risk going any further. He had to turn back and try and find his way to the car. He began stumbling back down what he assumed was the path (as it was too dark to even see it anymore) wishing he'd had the foresight to grab his damn flashlight before chasing a complete stranger into the forest.

"Shit," Kenny said. "This was a really stupid thing to do."

He was just starting to panic when he heard the blare of a horn and Cartman's voice calling out to him, demanding to know where the fuck he went.

God, Cartman, please don't stop screaming. Keep that fat fucking mouth of yours going.

And to his surprise, Cartman did. He kept yelling about how he was seriouslah pissed off at him for disappearing, and that if Kenny didn't show himself he was going to kick his ass when he did. Kenny followed Cartman's bellows of rage all the way back to the road, where there was a pickup truck. Cartman, Butters and some crazy redneck who looked like Jeff Foxworthy were standing there, scanning the trees with flashlights.

"You stupid son of a bitch!" Cartman bellowed when he saw him. "I went all the way to town on foot because you kept bitching about how you didn't want to leave your car, and then you go running through the woods like some kind of faggot ass Indian. I'm seriouslah. You're so fucking stupid."

"What were you doin' in there anyway?" the redneck asked.

"I followed someone in there," Kenny said.

"Who did you follow into them trees?" Redneck replied.

"Some guy named Stan. He was sitting here talking to me, then he mentioned something about a friend of his named Kyle who died. He got upset and took off running. I was trying to catch him."

Redneck had been in the process of putting a new plug of chewin tobaccer in his mouth when Kenny said that. He was caught so off-guard that he choked on it and almost swallowed it.

"Uuh, are you okay?" Butters asked, clapping him on the back.

"I'm fine," Redneck said, coughing and sputtering. "Come on. Let's get you in the truck and get you to town. We have a cheap motel there, and you can come back for your car in the morning."

They drove into the small town of South Park and checked into the motel, which was simply titled ROOMS 4 RENT, and Butters and Cartman were almost immediately asleep. Kenny found sleep hard to come by, however. Who was Stan? What was his story? He seemed so young, yet so haunted by the things he'd seen. Those wails of his, those cries of absolute soul-shattering sorrow, kept echoing through Kenny's head, causing his skin to break out in goosebumps. They had been the cries of a man in eternal agony.

The next day, Kenny went to the local library and was granted access to the internet on a guest pass. He needed to get phone numbers for local businesses in the area, like towing services. He needed to have his car hauled away. It was definitely beyond his price range to fix, but he might be able to get a couple hundred extra dollars by selling it to a junker or a scrapper. He also wanted to find out where the nearest bus station was and how much three tickets back to Los Angeles would be. While he was there, however, he decided to do a little snooping. He wondered what kind of information might be on the internet for someone as reclusive as Stan Marsh. Surely he had attended a nearby high school? Perhaps he would have been mentioned in an article about his friend Kyle's death or even his obituary.

He entered the search: Stan Marsh Kyle South Park Colorado

The first hit was a page titled The Broflovski-Marsh Tragedy

Love of all kinds has the ability to move us emotionally and sometimes spiritually. When we watch a movie like Twilight or read a romance novel, those soft-hearted among us kind of let out a longing sigh and wish that we could experience a love like that.

In the years following World War II, two boys in the little town of South Park did experience it. Their names were Kyle Broflovski and Stan Marsh. Marsh, born October 19, 1930, was a lifelong resident of South Park. Broflovski, born May 26, 1930, emigrated from Germany with his family in 1939 during the Third Reich to avoid persecution for being Jewish. When Broflovski came to America, his parents knew English but he did not. Marsh immediately latched on to him and began to help him adjust to the language and customs of America. They quickly became best friends.

By 1945, when the boys were fifteen, they had become inseparable and had developed romantic inclinations towards each other. It took some time to admit it to themselves and each other, especially in a period when homosexuality was deemed to be a mental disorder and a perversion. They eventually made peace with it, and by 1947 were all but engaged and doing a very poor job of keeping their romance under wraps. We have here a love letter that Marsh wrote to Broflovski. It is presumed to be one of the last, and one of the only ones still in existence.

My Dearest Kyle:

How I love everything about you. Your hair, your freckles, your laugh. Even your sometimes short temper. You make me so happy, and I wish so much that our love was not so taboo. How I wish that you and I could be married and happy. Alas, such happiness is denied us. For the rest of our lives, we will have to keep our feelings secret. I don't think they'll be learning to accept who and what we are any time soon, and I'm sorry for that. I'm sorry that I cannot provide for you a happy and open and honest marriage blessed by the community. I would like nothing more than to walk hand-in-hand with you down the street, to stop on the street corner in the rain and kiss you, to introduce you to people as the man I love.

You've no idea how I long to caress you, to kiss you, to make love to you. How long has it been since we made love? These two months I have been gone with my parents have been a nightmare for me. I lay alone in my bed at night, wishing you were there next to me, holding me.

I will be home soon, my love. I promise. This trip is almost over, and then we can be together again.

With all my love,

Stan

Alas, this meeting was not meant to be. When Kyle received the letter, he absentmindedly left it sitting on the living room table while he went to answer the call of nature. His mother Sheila, a disturbingly devout Jewish woman, found the letter and immediately went into panic mode. She yelled at Kyle in German and English, slapping him numerous times across the face and telling him how he had shamed their family. She confided in a neighbor she trusted (who was, unfortunately, a busybody and gossip of the worst kind) that she was considering having her son committed. This friend then told someone else that the Broflovskis had a pervert for a son, though she requested that the information go no further. It did. Before long, it was all over town that Kyle was a man lover.

This situation didn't take long to escalate into violence. Several local thugs waited for Kyle as he was walking home and brutally mauled him. He was beaten to such an unrecognizable state that even the county coroner, who was used to seeing carnage, screamed when he saw what had happened to him. Stan was devastated when he found out. Even more so because he didn't find out until after he got home a month later. Kyle had already been buried for weeks, and no one had even bothered to contact him.

Stan went to the grave every day and sobbed over it, telling Kyle how sorry he was. Marsh always felt it was his fault that Kyle had been murdered (the boys responsible for the crime had gotten off on a technicality, which added insult to injury). He left flowers on the grave, teddy bears, notes. He managed to hold on for another three months before he put his father's revolver in his mouth and blew his brains all over the living room wall. He and Kyle are not buried next to each other, as their families didn't want them together even in death, though they are in the same cemetery.

The cemetery where the two boys are buried has long fallen into disrepair. It is located on an overgrown path inaccessible to vehicles. Many of the tombstones in the area have either been knocked over or otherwise vandalized. But ghost hunters sometimes visit the area, because people say that Stan sometimes wanders down to the road to greet travelers and that at night you can hear him (and sometimes see him) sobbing over Kyle's grave, eternally punishing himself for the loss of his beloved.

Kenny felt his world begin to spin. It wasn't possible, but it explained so much. Why Stan wouldn't allow Kenny to touch him, why he said he wasn't worried about the revolver, why he said cigarette smoke wasn't a problem for him.

And then it hit him. He'd been trying to figure out what it was about Stan that was off, that thing that was nagging at the back of his mind saying that it should have been as clear as the nose on his face. Stan hadn't been breathing in any of the smoke. Kenny's door had been closed and his window up, so the smoke was thick. It was filling the car and gravitating toward Stan's open door, yet Stan hadn't been breathing any of it in. He wasn't coughing, his eyes weren't turning red, he wasn't breathing any of it out.

Then there were some of the things he said.

I've got a little piece of ground back that way though it's really not much to look at. Kinda lonely and depressing, actually. Used to get visitors from town from time to time who would come and check up on me, talk to me and stuff. They don't really do that anymore. They either forgot I'm out here or just got busy with whatever it is that people in town do.

His "little piece of ground" had been his grave, and his "visitors" were people coming to see his burial mound.

The stuff that makes me me. It's funny how little that stuff means in the long run, doesn't it? I mean, you ask someone what their interests are, what they like to do for fun, who their friends are, what they want to grow up to be. When people die, all of that stuff is summed up by a little dash on a headstone, you know? I mean, there's a rock with your name on it, followed by two dates. The first is the day you were born, the second is the day you died. Between them is a little dash. That little dash encompasses everything you were, everything you tried to be, all your accomplishments, all your failures.

Good God.

I think my sister is still alive, but I don't see her anymore. She used to come and see me, but she moved away somewhere. The last time I saw her, she said to me 'I love you, turd. I'm sorry I won't be able to come and see you anymore. I'm getting married and moving east.' She didn't tell me where in the east she was going. I tried to tell her that I understood, that I loved her just the same, but I might as well have not been speaking at all.

Kenny was starting to get scared as more and more of this came rushing back to him. The way he never touched anything, not the car door, not the hood, not him. Nothing. The way he was able to remain as still as a statue no matter what. And then, the most haunting thing Kenny remembered hearing him say:

You have nothing to fear from me. I'm as harmless as a ghost.

Kenny didn't even bother logging off his terminal. He ran out of the library to keep his scream of horror from disturbing the sacred silence.