Life takes on a rhythm. We go to work, sleep in on weekends, watch television or read books or ignore each other. It depends on the day. We are spectacularly ordinary.

Except we're not. In bed on a Sunday reading the paper, him with the sport section and me with the arts section, blue static arcs between his skin and mine. It's not magic, he says, perhaps it's the carpet.

I'm putting away the supper dishes one evening when there's a knock at the door. Robbie is there, shifting from foot to foot, with his hands jammed in the pockets of his blue jeans. He stares at the floor and stammers and mumbles that we're invited upstairs for a visit with his flatmate. It seems imprudent to refuse.

At the door we're greeted with a cloud of fragrant smoke. A half-empty bottle of whiskey sits on an end table next to an overflowing ashtray, a couple of crumpled nearly empty matchbooks, a pile of pocket change, and assorted guitar picks.

Bent over a battered guitar, a large man is occupying most of the couch, trying out one chord and another and humming to himself. He has a coppery mustache that flows into mutton-chop sideburns. His rust-colored suede jacket is nearly the same shade as his long, rather scraggly hair.

The big man stands and extends a huge, pink, freckled hand. "Howdy. I'm Grant. You must be John Mitchell, mighty nice to meet you. What's your name, pretty lady?"

"I'm Josie."

Grant kisses my wrist with an exaggerated flourish. "Pleased to make your acquaintance. "

"Erm, likewise. What song were you playing?" I'm not sure what to say to him.

"Just noodling around. Like it?" He smiles.

I smile back, stretching my face further than it wants to go. "You sound great."

"Hey Rob, how about we play a couple more?"

Robbie's slouched on the folding bed, staring into space. A lit cigarette dangles slackly between his thumb and forefinger; he's ignoring the ash falling on the bare mattress. Grant starts another song, and Robbie puts the nearly finished cigarette in his mouth and picks up a guitar.

They play folk ballads and Johnny Cash and Dylan and country songs I don't recognize. Grant has a warm, rumbling voice with a rasp of smoke and sandpaper. The impromptu concert lasts half an hour, maybe more. I'm getting bored, and a little sleepy, so I'm relieved when they stop.

"Like a drink?" Robbie is acting the dutiful host while Grant holds court.

"That'll do." Mitchell nods toward the whiskey.

"Sure, help yerself," says Grant.

"I will, thanks." Grant passes the bottle over and Mitchell takes a good long pull from it. And another.

Robbie brings me a gin and tonic. A round slice of lime perches on the edge of the glass.

Mitchell sits and smokes.

Someone knocks, and then opens the door without waiting for anyone to answer it. It's the annoying vampire who once barged in on us uninvited. His face twitches when he notices me.

Robbie shrinks into his seat. His foot taps as if he's still keeping time. He gulps his drink. Grant puts his own guitar away and recorks the whiskey bottle.

The visitor grins, but it looks more like a grimace. "I'd heard the party was here! Thought I'd drop by and see how everyone's getting on." He extends a hand to Grant. "Nick Cutler, at your service."

Grant gets up to shake hands. He's a head taller than Cutler, and half again as broad in the shoulders. "Very pleased to meet you. Thanks for making me feel so welcome."

"And you must be Grant. Was no trouble at all. We aim to please. How are you finding England?"

"I like it. Could be warmer, but you can't have everything, now, can you?"

"No, I don't suppose you can."

"Damp, too. Back California, it's dry as a bone. Things just shrivel up and blow away. Leave anything uncovered here and it'll stink up a place in no time. Must be a hell of a lot of work."

Cutler raises his shoulders until they are nearly next to his ears, like an unfinished shrug, and smiles, baring his teeth. I'm reminded of a rearing cobra. Or perhaps a hunchbacked weasel. "We've had a long time to get that sorted." He flicks a sideways glance at me, and turns back to Grant. "Trade secret, I'll tell you later, when the company is less, er, mixed."

"No need." Mitchell's voice sharpens to a threat. "Go on, explain it now. Won't be anything Josie hasn't heard already."

The hair prickles on the back of my neck. He has, in fact, told me more than I wanted to know about hiding bodies, but that's not really the point. I want to get out of here in the worst way.

"Be that as it may, I'd rather not discuss it with a...a... female in the room. It's not the done thing, as I'm sure you know."

Mitchell narrows his eyes, lights a cigarette, and takes a long drag. He addresses Robbie as if Cutler isn't there. "The new recruits-that'll include you, Robbie, once you're settled-are responsible for cleanup detail. Isn't that right, Nick?"

Cutler blinks hard, but his face stays blank. "You don't look so far removed from that job yourself, Nick. I just bet you're an absolute whiz at digging holes, mopping floors, and getting blood out of shirt collars."

It's time for this to stop. I stand up and yawn ostentatiously. "Mitchell, I'm knackered. Do you mind if I head home to bed? Grant, lovely to meet you. Robbie, thanks for the drink. And the music. Good night."

Mitchell stands too, and takes my arm. "It is getting late. I'm a bit tired myself." Since no-one had offered Cutler a seat, he's still standing there in the middle of the room. We brush past him on our way out.

Pissing contest averted.

Or not.

We're at my door and I'm fishing the keys from my coat pocket when Nick Cutler appears behind us.

"A word, please. I really didn't feel like we said a proper good night. And I wanted to enlighten you with a bit of perspective."

Annoyed, Mitchell wheels around to stand between Cutler and the door. He crosses his arms and scowls. "All right. Talk. Make it quick."

Neither of them is ready to let this drop. I'm frustrated. Really, I just want to go to bed.

Cutler's voice drips with condescension. "It's all so inevitable isn't it? You go along thinking you can live with them, among them, have a life, no one will notice. But someone always does. There are some things you can't hide, some people who won't let well enough alone. It's too seductive, too intriguing. It will kill them, every time."

Mitchell is keeping hold of his temper, but his eyes are hooded and his voice carries the barest trace of hostility. "It doesn't have to. There are ways to keep people safe."

"There aren't. You had better come to terms with it. I had to. You must have done, at some point, then something threw you off. What was it? Boredom? Loneliness? Love? Rebellion? Contrariness? Guilt? Arrogance?"

I really don't like Mr. Cutler.

"No. it was the utter pointlessness of it all. Destruction and death, over and over. We live only to feed. Why bother? It's so fucking boring."

"We do have a larger purpose, Mitchell, but you are ignoring it. We take care of our own don't we? You have a responsibility-"

"-not to rock the boat? Fine. I won't. I want to be left alone. What I do is no-one else's business."

"No-one else's business? You've got some interesting priorities, haven't you? Putting humans above your own kind. Are you sure you're not still delirious? Why are you pretending to be something you're not? You need your own species. We both know it."

"Look, the blokes upstairs seem all right for vampires, but vampires are exactly what I don't need. How can I convince you to leave us alone?"

"Ah, but we have left you alone. We've done nothing but run interference for you. Why do you think you've got these particular neighbors? Because they won't ask too many questions. Or the wrong ones. It's safer this way, don't you agree? Anyway, I'm off. Have a lovely evening."

With a jaunty wave and a grin that makes me want to punch him, he's gone.

Mitchell's face is stormy. "He's trying to make me angry,"

"Are you going to let him?"

"No. That's what he wants."

Another night. We're up late but I don't want to sleep yet. I'm unwinding in front of the television after a day's work, a quiet supper, a couple of drinks. Nothing special. Weather forecast. Summaries of tennis matches. After football scores, the news begins to report on the war in Southeast Asia: destroyed villages, horrific photos, death tolls. Mitchell gets up and switches channels until we hear "Yakety Sax." The screen shows nothing but swiftly rotating black stripes.

While he's adjusting the vertical hold, Stephanie appears. She's taken his spot beside me on the couch. We hadn't seen her since that night with James and Albert, and I'd started to wonder if we'd driven her off.

As the picture resolves, she points at the ridiculous chase scene, involving Benny Hill, a topless girl, and a motor scooter. "D'you really think that's funny?"

I answer without thinking. "Not really, no..."

Right, this is weird. A person just appeared out of thin air to ask me if I like Benny Hill. I rub my eyes and start over. She's not a vampire or a five-year-old, so I'm halfway glad to see her.

"Oh. Stephanie, hello! How long have you been here?"

"I'm not really sure. It feels like I never left."

Mitchell is still fiddling with the dials, trying to get the picture fully still. Its black frame keeps rising gradually to the top of the screen, reappearing at the bottom, and rising again.

"Stephanie, why can't you leave? What are you supposed to be doing?" He sounds like he's talking to a cornered animal.

"It's not up to me, or I'd be off like a shot." She draws her knees up to her chin and wraps her arms around them.

Mitchell turns the television volume all the way down, but doesn't shut it off. Instead of sitting in the vacant armchair, he slides the coffee table back from the couch a couple of feet and sits on it, facing me and Stephanie. "But what are you doing here? "

She ignores the question. "I don't get it. I really thought you understood me. You were so... gentle. I was sick and broken and hurting, and you helped me. Did you know that? You made something happen, and suddenly I was... better. And then I was dead. "

"I wish 'sorry' helped, but I know it doesn't. I don't want to hurt people anymore. "

Stephanie isn't interested. "My mum used to tell me, don't say sorry, just don't do it. Get this through your head: I don't care how you feel about it. Apparently, you managed to find someone who does. The poor gullible thing."

She's the poor thing, not me.

"Tell me something. When you were really hurting, would you have killed to make it stop?"

She looks down at her hands. "It never came to that."

"You're free now. You don't need it anymore. But look. He's been trying to stop the pain, every second of every day, for fifty years. Before all of that, he died. But we can't change what's past. "

She twists away from me to face Mitchell squarely. "Why am I listening to your girlfriend? Why aren't you telling me this yourself?"

"Because it doesn't matter, does it?"

Nobody says anything.

"Stephanie," I say gently, "is there any way we can help you?" I light a cigarette and set it in the ashtray near her. I know she likes that.

She presses her eyes with her fingertips. Her nail polish is chipped. "I don't know. I've nowhere to go. I'm not sure what to do with myself. I don't feel a thing. I can't sleep, I can't eat, I can't smoke, I can't touch anyone, I can't do dope. I can't even cry."

I try to put an arm around her but it sinks disconcertingly past her outline to rest somewhere beneath the contour of her shoulder. It's like holding a pile of dry leaves.

Finally, she leans against my shoulder, and weeps, quietly at first, but building to anguished sobbing that nearly breaks my heart. Stephanie was doomed the moment he laid eyes on her. Or possibly before that. It's Mitchell's fault, but I am complicit. Aiding and abetting. I can't take it back either.

"Poor lamb. Go ahead, let it out, I've got you, " I murmur to her. "It'll be alright. It's alright." It isn't. I'm holding back tears of my own.

Mitchell seems utterly desolate. "Stephanie, I really am sorry," he says, shaking his head. "But I'm no help, am I? I'll leave you alone. You're in good hands." He switches off the silent television. "Good night."

I watch the white pinpoint on the screen fade away to black while Stephanie takes a few moments to calm down. She arches her back, stretches her legs and rests her feet on the coffee table. "Thank you," she says. "That did help a little."

"So, are you still here to turn Mitchell bad again?"

"No. I've quit that job. Now they won't let me back."

"Back where?"

"Through my door. I'm stuck here 'til I give them what they want."

"Here? In this flat? And what do you mean by 'them'?"

"More or less here. I've looked in on Jenna's old place. It wasn't ever really my home. I tried to stay there, but I kept disappearing without meaning to, and finding myself back here. This is where they want me." She leans close enough that I can see individual black clumps in her mascara. All that crying and it isn't even smudged. "Robbie was a friend of mine, you know."

"I didn't know. "

"Yeah, he was seeing Jenna, but it was... sort of complicated."

"Complicated how? "

"Well, Robbie and me, we were sort of, er, close."

"How charming."

"It wasn't like that, really. Jenna was my best friend, she did so much for me, she took me in, she got me away from Freddie... "

"And you cheated with her boyfriend? That's how you repaid her? What was it like, then? And who's Freddie?"

"My ex. A nasty piece of work, he is. He's a dope dealer. I was an addict. He used to make me blow his customers. Disgusting."

"Ugh. That's awful."

"Over with now. Robbie's always been a sweetheart. Bit of a pushover, really. And he was good to me when no-one else was. Jenna didn't know. She was quite old-fashioned when it came down to it. She'd have been devastated."

"Have you spoken to him since..."

"Since I came back? No. I can't think what to say. Sorry you're a vampire? How's bloodsucking going? Look at me I'm transparent? We were both just people and now we're... It's all too weird."

A question occurs to me.

"Speaking of weird, Stephanie, I shouldn't be able to see you, should I? Why can I see you? "

"At first it was because they allowed it. I was supposed to frighten you. That didn't really work did it?"

"Oh, I was plenty frightened."

"You were? You didn't let on. I expected you to scream or something."

"I didn't think you'd hurt me. There's a difference between being frightened and fearing for your life. I don't see a need to be loud unless it's the second one. And sometimes not even then."

"You know, your judgement can deceive you. Freddie made me fear for my life. Mitchell never did."

I ignore this.

"If you've stopped doing a job for them, why can I still see you?"

"You've been sleeping with a vampire for a long time now, haven't you?"

"Oh. I see." My strange journey with him, the electricity, the vivid dreams, the spinning feeling I'd thought was vertigo: vampire traces. "And if I stop, I won't be able to see you anymore?"

"That's right."

She's so translucent that wisps of smoke are visible passing behind her face. Lamplight filtering through the smoke gives her a hazy pinkish aura.

"The two of you are a package deal then? "

"I suppose you could say that."

There's nowhere else for her to go.

Roger has been steadfast in his desire to remain friends. After much cajoling from him, I agree to meet him for a drink after work.

He hasn't changed much. He still has a warm smile and an incongruously high, giggly laugh. I'm still fascinated by the way he moves his long tapered elegant hands when he speaks, and irritated when he deliberately mispronounces words for effect, with a knowing, jokey waggle of eyebrows. "Syoo-per-syoo-nic air-ee-oh-plane," he'd say. "Im-poss-i-bubble."

He takes a small object out of his pocket. "What do you think of this?"

It's a box about the size of a box of cigarettes, painted white, with a label on it that reads, "Box of smile". When you slide the lid back and look inside, the bottom of the box is a mirror.

"I got it from that Japanese girl we saw perform awhile back, do you remember? She's selling them by the case. I thought they were quite clever. Lydia said it looked like a compact for doing your makeup, or more likely, storing your blow, and said she didn't want it. Wasn't girly enough."

I frown into the mirror, checking my hair. It can be used for that. Then I realize I'm not following the instructions, implicit though they may be, and can't help laughing. I look in the mirror again, and my reflection smiles back. It works! Blow is apparently optional. I can't afford it anyway.

"Roger, I love it!"

"I knew you'd get it. Keep it."

"No, I couldn't."

"It's yours, really. I miss you Josie. You keep me honest. You don't jump to conclusions, you keep an open mind. I so admire that about you. We always fit together so well."

Roger still cares for me. We could go back to our old life together. It would be so simple, no trouble at all, except which dancers to hire, which party to attend first. For a moment I'm tempted. God, I'm weak.

But. Mitchell. A whirl of fascination, dread, sorrow, desire. His clear eyes. Freezing toes. The taste of him, honey and charcoal. The dark, empty, violent world behind this warm familiar one, fading in and out of view. The addictive electricity between us. The half-circle dimple at the side of his mouth when he smiles. What might happen if I left him.

Here's the thing: This isn't going to culminate in grandchildren and family photo albums. That's not in the cards. I knew, even before it began, that there would never be a happily ever after, but we stay together because separating is going to tear us to shreds. Sorry, Roger. Not a chance.

"Let's work together again," Roger says. "I love your creative energy so much. I'd forgotten how easy you are to be with. You make anything seem possible."

You don't know the half of it.

"How is Lydia? "

"Good, good. She keeps me on my toes."

"I miss you too, Roger, but I've moved on. I've other obligations."

"Have you met someone?"

I cross my legs and bump my knee on the low pub table. "Yes."

"I see. That's wonderful for you. Where did you meet?"

"Is it really any of your business?"

"No, I suppose it isn't."

He has no idea, but he thinks he does. His voice goes cold.

"I wish you'd reconsider the offer. Think of your priorities, your career! With your injuries, you're damaged goods, and at your age you may not get another chance. You'll have your babies and get fat and old. You're wasting the time you have left."

"Roger, how could you say that? Can you even hear yourself? Get it through your skull. I don't need you."

The arrogance. He thinks he can waltz back into my life whenever the fancy strikes him and pick up where he left off. I've seen and done things beyond his wildest and most spectacular fantasies. I rub at the faint bumpy scar on my little finger. It's nearly gone.

He looks like a child who's been slapped. "I thought you wanted to stay friends."

"I did, and I've tried, but you are making it very difficult. I never realized how little you thought of me."

"What do you mean? I've just asked you back into the company."

"How very magnanimous of you. Piss off."

Why do these men think they know what's best for me? Why did I believe them? Presumptuous gits. My cheeks are hot with rage.

I want to scratch his eyes out. I imagine the feeling of my nails tearing into his flesh, my fingers sinking into his eye sockets and behind the smooth, rubbery, slimy eyeballs, and prying them out. How they would look dangling from their roots, bobbing against his bleeding face, the eyelids grotesquely sunken.

I must calm down. And, breathe, two, three, four. And again, two, three, four.

He shakes his head like a schoolteacher reprimanding a pupil. "I think you're making a mistake."

"That's your opinion. And I think I'm done here. Thanks for the pint." I leave my glass three-quarters full, pull on my coat and head home.

My fuse is so short these days. I'm shedding an old skin; my flesh shreds and reshapes itself. Don't touch me. Don't get near me. I don't know what I might do.

Back home, Mitchell is sitting on the couch, smoking a cigarette, deeply involved in the crossword puzzle, with a cup of tea balanced on his leg, and a half-eaten packet of crisps on the coffee table. The packet has fallen over and half of the crisps have spilled onto the floor.

I burst out laughing. As quietly as possible, I remove the teacup from his knee and set it on the coffee table. No need to risk any more broken cups. My kiss on the cheek startles him.

"What? Oh, hello. You're home late."

"Sorry to interrupt. You looked soooo very busy. "

"I was just passing the time. I'll tidy this up."

After quickly finishing the tea, he sets the cup on the table and attempts to sweep up the spilled crisps.

"Wait, I'll get you the broom."

While he sweeps up crumbs, I tell him about my chat with Roger, his job offer, that he first tried to seduce me and when I turned him down he got nasty and personal.

"What an arsehole. But maybe you should take the job. "

"But he was so awful. I'm absolutely furious with him."

"Are you sure you want to burn that bridge? Can you work with him anyway? Or did he only want to get back together? Because he's right. The job might be a good opportunity for you."

"I don't know anymore. Since you got here things are so different."

"Don't worry, I'm not going anywhere on account of him. We've had to make lots of adjustments, but it won't always be like this. I don't want to stop you living your life. I can go on endlessly, but you can't. It wouldn't be right for me to hold you back."

What do I want? How long can we do this? I'll get older, I might want a family, I might tire of the constant fear that some vampire will decide I'm a useful pawn. He's said as much: this can't go on forever.

"What would I gain by going back to Roger, hat in hand, and asking him for the job? Would it be worth it?"

"I can't answer that. I don't know him, I only know you. You don't love your job now. What would you do if I weren't here?"

"I...I...I'm still not sure. It would open a lot of old wounds. Lydia is still there, and it's just... ugh."

Mitchell frowns. "Are you serious? After everything you've been through, you're afraid of being uncomfortable? I know you're tougher than that. This is your life we're talking about here." He touches my cheek and gently lifts my chin until my eyes meet his. "I know this from experience: if you want something, ask. The worst he can say is no."

What do I want?

I'm sat in the armchair knitting while Robbie's teaching Mitchell to play guitar. It's been quite amusing to watch. After going over some basic chords, Mitchell trails off, frustrated.

"I'll work on this later. " He puts down the guitar. "You and Grant make it look so easy."

Robbie downs half his glass of whiskey and soda. "That's the only time I enjoy anything, playing music with Grant."

"Sorry to hear that."

"It was all I ever wanted to do. I keep t-t-telling myself it should be enough. But I miss the band. Of course we can't play in front of people-someone may try to photograph us. I never f-figured on that. Oh, perhaps we can do studio work or play vampire parties, and we do sometimes, but that's it. If we put out a record, we couldn't promote it. I'm sss-such an idiot."

Mitchell grins wryly. "Being a vampire isn't really a good career move, is it?"

"Then there's the other part. Grant calls it feeding, but come on, it's really m-m-murdering people and sucking their blood. He says it will get easier, but it hasn't yet."

Mitchell closes his eyes briefly, and rubs his forehead. "It does." He stares into the middle distance.

"And if I don't do it... You know what that's like."

"It's different for everyone."

"But it always hurts doesn't it? Mr C-c-cutler keeps checking in on us because we're new around here and he said he wanted to make sure we were comfortable. He also said it was a bad idea to s-s-self medicate. You know what I mean. But I'm sure that would work! Why can't I?"

"Wouldn't do to have gangs of vampire junkies roaming about, would it? They're bad at following rules. We'd be compromised."

"Seriously, that's why?"

"Afraid so."

"Grant says Cutler's 'the Man,' whatever that means. We're to ask for what we need, and he makes sure we're b-b-behaving. Sometimes he's cool, and as long as we don't bring any attention to ourselves he says we can s-s-stay."

"That Cutler, he needs his face kicked in." He stands up. "Who wants tea?"

I would, and so would Robbie.

As Mitchell digs through the kitchen, Robbie gives a faint smile, picks up his guitar and sings, almost to himself. It's a Beatles song, "I'm looking through you."

In a wink, Stephanie is perched on the sofa beside Robbie. "What a perfect song," she says. "I always did like that one."

Robbie gives a start. "Stephanie! W-w-what are you doing here?"

"I died, I passed over, I was brought back as a sort of supernatural errand girl, and here I am."

"Errand girl? What do you mean?"

"It was such a drag. Something to do with Mitchell, I suppose, though I don't really know what they expected me to do. They just wound me up and turned me loose. Screw them."

She puts her hand on his. "I've missed you, Robbie. What happened? How did you end up this way? Are you alright?"

"No, I'm not. After you and Jenna died, I thought there was nothing left. I didn't c-care anymore." He puts his guitar away.

"How long has it been?"

"Just a couple of months. I met Grant in Birmingham, backstage at a show. I hadn't felt like seeing girls since Jenna died, I'd just been drinking and using lots of dope. I was m-miserable and lonely and didn't care about anything. When he asked me to join him I thought, why the hell not? Can't be any w-w-worse than where I am now. I was wrong."

"How did you two get back here?"

"He'd killed an actress in California, and people were looking for him. He pretended to be dead, had his friends leave his body in the desert, then hopped freight trains and stowed away on a ship to England. He'd been drifting about and needed somewhere to stay. I sort of mentioned I knew of a place that might be available. And here we are."

Stephanie takes hold of his elbow and leans her head on his shoulder. She's almost smiling. "What about your music? I thought it was all you cared about. Aside from Jenna."

"We can't play out but we can still p-p-play, and Grant's damn good. He has a bit of a temper but he's passable company. I went with him because he offered me something different."

She interrupts him with a very unladylike snort. The sound makes him flinch. He half-closes his eyes and bites his bottom lip.

"C-c-cut me a little slack, please. I was in a bad way."

"Sorry. It just seems like a peculiar method of coping."

"I was out of my mind. I thought I'd leave my old life and have adventures and it would be exciting and dangerous and spooky. Mostly it's none of those things. It's lonely and b-b-boring and ugly. The sun hurts my eyes, I keep cutting myself shaving, and I have to kill people. Not alright at all. "

"I can't say I approve of the lifestyle. You could say I've had first hand experience of it."

"I'd no idea you were killed by vampires until Mr. Cutler told me. They keep those sorts of things awfully quiet. "

"Did he tell you which vampires?"

He nods and flicks his eyes toward the kitchen, where Mitchell is smoking and making tea.

"And?"

"He said Mitchell was not to be trifled with, that he was more dangerous than most. I don't know what to think. I can't begin to understand him. Living with a human girl, giving up blood, pretending not to be one of us. "

"Yeah, I know. Him being reformed or clean or whatever is worth slightly less than fuck-all to me." She tilts her head. "But wouldn't you like to do that? Go clean, I mean?"

"I think a lot of us would. It's not like killing people is a great weekend h-h-hobby. You really can't stop. When I first became a vampire, I couldn't think of anything but blood, and going without for even a day made me ridiculously ill, falling-down writhing, b-b-bugs-in-your-skin ill. They say you can go longer as you get older. "

"You've seen what he did to me?" She flashes into her mutilated form. I drop three stitches in my knitting. Seeing her that way still makes me feel sick.

"You look delicious, sweetheart. If you were real I'd eat you myself."

"Oh. Shit." Her shoulders drop in disappointment. To my tremendous relief, normal Stephanie replaces corpse Stephanie. She shakes her head sadly. "Jesus, Robbie. You're completely ruined, aren't you?"

"It's okay, I'll manage."

"I don't want you to manage. How could you?"

"You of all people should understand. You do what you have to do." He covers her hand with his own. "It's good to see you Stephanie. Wow, you're really a ghost, aren't you?"

"Not so different than before. Even then I was barely there."

Mitchell returns with three mugs of tea on a tray. "Oh. Stephanie. Looks like I'm one short. I'll get another."

He sets down the tea tray and returns to the kitchen. A few moments later he returns with a fourth mug of tea, which he offers to Stephanie.

Briefly, Stephanie weaves her fingers through Robbie's, then accepts the tea, holding the warm mug with both hands. She gives Mitchell a puzzled, wary look.

"I can't drink it, you know."

"I know."