Sam stares at the board, heart beating too fast, high up, against the base of his throat, the thin wooden planchette moving from letter to letter.
He's really here, he thinks, hope rising impossibly.
And falling.
He's really here.
Spirit only, his body left behind, attached to the jungle of tubes and monitors, skin pale beneath the freckles, breathing done for him by a machine.
Really here, moving the planchette across the cheap laminated board.
That meant … he was dying.
How close would he have to be for his spirit to be able leave freely?
Very close.
Almost.
Dead.