If you started reading this story after this chapter was posted, you can ignore this note.

Those of you who have been here since at least the previous chapter may want to go back to that one. I added a brief blurb to it. It appears after Danny leaves Blairman but before he finds Paulina. Let's just say that I was originally going to make Danny and Mira a couple but didn't because romance, to me, is a foreign concept that I didn't want to write. But, I couldn't stop thinking about the pairing and...now it's going to be a thing. Please bear with me while I pretend to know what I'm doing. :)

Chapter Eight: Guess Who's Coming to Dash's

"Be the reason someone smiles today. Or, the reason they drink. Whatever works." - Unknown

The next day, I lead Blairman and his old-fashioned camera around town, showing off anything that I think would be of interest. And, pretending I don't notice the people who try to make their way into the shot. So far, we've been to the hospital (I like to visit patients and help the doctors when bystanders get hurt on my watch) and the arcade (because…duh). Unfortunately, I am the only one who's having fun.

"This here is The Nasty Burger," I say, gesturing grandly toward the building I've been frequenting for years. "Despite the name, the food is actually really good. This place is also a popular hang-out for teenagers. I'm not sure why. There's just something about it."

Blairman hums, slightly bored. Well, that's on him for telling me to point out the places that I like. "Can we go inside? Maybe talk to some patrons?"

I point a finger gun at him. "I figured you'd ask. And, I already had a duplicate clear it with the manager."

"Great," Blairman drawls. "Hopefully, something interesting will happen."

I choose to ignore that. "Follow me."

I walk to the entrance, and Blairman moans, "Ugh. You're using the door now? I thought you only had us on the ground for a better shot."

With my hand curled around the door handle, I say over my shoulder, "I don't walk through walls if there's no danger. That's just rude."

Blairman scoffs. "You know, when I said I wanted a tour of the town, I was hoping you would show off things that are worth showing off."

And here I thought today would be simple. My grip tightens on the handle. "This documentary is about showing the humans that ghosts aren't that different from them where it counts. That includes showing that they can like the same kinds of things, even if those things are a little mundane."

Blairman looks up at the sky and blows out a breath. "Fine."

I hope he isn't going to be like this all day. I open the doors and faces turn toward me before I even set foot in the dining room. And, it just dawned on me that the only times I've ever entered the building in ghost-form were when there was trouble.

"Don't mind us, folks," I call out, hoping no one notices how hard uncomfortable I am. "We're just doing our thing."

Blairman shoves me aside with his camera at the ready. "Someone rob the place! I'm bored!"

There is so much wrong with this guy. I shove him right back and address the startled onlookers. "Go about your business. Just let us know if you don't want your face in the movie."

Everyone returns to their meals, but there are still excited whispers and glances in our direction. I try to ignore them as I lead Blairman further into the dining room.

"As I've stated, you'll find a lot of kids and families here after school. Or, since it's Saturday, during lunch." I spot some familiar faces at a booth. Since Blairman wanted to talk to the patrons, I approach. "Hello, random patrons. Got anything to say about The Nasty Burger?"

"Well, like they say in the slogan," Tucker says, holding up his half-eaten burger, "'nasty' is just one letter away from 'tasty.'" He punctuates this by taking a huge bite.

"I just come here because my friends like it." Sam admits. She holds up her own "burger." "Though I am glad they added more vegan options to the menu. These veggie burgers aren't bad."

"Yes, yes," Blairman snarks. "So nice to hear that a place called 'The Nasty Burger' caters to dietary restrictions." My friends and I glare at him, but he ignores this and lowers his camera, giving me a desperate look. "Isn't there anything here worth talking about?"

A growl rumbles in my throat. Common sense keeps me from telling him off in front of everyone. Instead, I grab him by the shirt collar and pull him outside, this time phasing through the wall.

I don't start scolding him until we're away from prying eyes. "You're the one who wanted a tour of the town. Don't complain if you don't like what you see."

"It's a lovely town, Phantom," Blairman says. "I just assumed there was something unique about it. Something besides rampant ghost attacks that sets it apart. I know you said you grew up here, but surely there's something specific about it that keeps you here."

My friends. My sister. My self-appointed duty.

My…parents.

After my talk with Paulina yesterday, I'd spent the night and this morning trying to avoid Mom and Dad. Luckily, they'd spent most of last night working in the lab, and this had been one of the rare mornings when I was able to sleep in.

"Why can't I just care?" I say at last. "Why can't it be that simple?"

Why can't anything be that simple?

Blairman squints at me. I don't miss the way he angles his camera toward my face. "Do you not like the Ghost Zone? Do you not want to be around other ghosts?"

My suspicions of him wavered yesterday. Now, they're coming back. "That's not it at all." I don't know if Blairman is going against my wishes and using Vlad's Compulsion setting, but I can't stop my next statement. "I know what dying feels like. No one should have to go through that before their time. I was fourteen, for Christ's sake! I'd barely started high school! And, I've seen what bad people - ghosts and humans alike - can do. Not just the extreme stuff, but I've seen pain and suffering - and felt it - and now I can do something about it. For anyone who needs it. I stay in Amity Park because I still consider this town my home. But, if an innocent ghost is in trouble, then of course I'll lend them a hand."

Blairman hums thoughtfully. He starts to speak, but he's cut off by a sharp, cold breath popping out of my mouth. He perks up instantly. "Oh, that's your Ghost Sense, right? Things are finally picking up!" He waves his camera around so fast that I have to stand back to avoid a concussion. "Where is it? Where's the ghost?"

This documentary better be worth it. That's all I have to say.

I scan the area and spot a small green creature running down the side of the office building across the street. I fly closer and note with relief that it's no one dangerous. The pudgy green dog sees my approach and leaps off the wall, barking happily. I laugh as I catch him and he covers my face in ectoplasmic slobber.

"Nice to see you too, Cujo," I greet through my giggles.

The little guy responds with one last long lick with his purple tongue. Big red eyes gaze adoringly at me as his short tail wags behind him. Cujo and I started off on the wrong foot when he trashed Axion Labs while looking for the favorite toy that was left behind when he died. But, he started showing up at random just to see me, and… Well, now I know what they mean about animals adopting you.

It's a shame that Mom and Dad would never let me keep a ghost for a pet. I have to settle for his regular visits. And, my regular visits, as he tends to reside at Reaper's lair.

(I bet Reaper and Eileen would let me keep him, I think out of nowhere.)

"It's not the action I was looking for," Blairman says, flying up to us with his camera in tow, "but who can resist an animal doing cute things?"

Cujo tenses up in my arms, his eyes now locked on Blairman. Animals, especially the dead ones, are highly intuitive and good judges of character. Cujo's reaction to Blairman should tell me quite a bit.

"Tell the folks at home, Phantom," Blairman goes on, pointing the camera at Cujo, who still doesn't move. "Who is this little charmer?"

"This is Cujo," I introduce. According to Reaper, Cujo's living name is Alfie, but I refuse to call him that. It just doesn't suit him. "You can pet him, if you'd like."

Blairman grins. "Oh, I just love dogs! Hello, Cujo." He reaches to pet the dog-ghost in my arms.

And, shrinks back, almost dropping his camera in shock when Cujo growls deeply, sounding eerily reminiscent of the monstrous form he takes when there's danger.

This doesn't surprise me at all.

Blairman chuckles sheepishly. "He probably smells my friend's cat on me."

Yeah. I'm sure that's the problem.

"Shall we continue?" Blairman says, hovering a safe distance away.

"Sure," I say reluctantly.

Blairman flies back to the ground. I'm about to join him when my Ghost Sense reappears. The next thing I know, a green, somewhat shapeless ghost zooms past me, cackling mischievously and carrying something. Right on their tail is a teenage girl wearing a red mechanical suit and riding on a hoverboard. A teenage girl who is supposed to be on vacation.

I grab her by the shoulder as she tries to fly past. "I thought we agreed that I would handle the ghosts for the time being."

"But, this directly involves me," Valerie argues. She points in the direction of the ghost, who floats nearby and waves a purse while making childish "naa-naa-naa" noises. "That rotten bastard stole my purse!"

"Oh. In that case, proceed."

Valerie takes off after the ghost once more. She'll be fine on her own with this one. I'm glad Blairman missed her. No doubt, he'd want a ghost hunter's perspective of me.

I start to fly after Blairman and stop when I see who he's talking to. I turn myself and Cujo invisible and descend to listen. Cujo makes a curious noise, and I cover his mouth with my hand.

"All I want is an interview!" Blairman begs, his camera hovering beside him, but the film reels aren't turning. "A documentary about a ghost superhero isn't complete without the words of ghost hunters."

Dad's eyes widen, and Mom's jaw drops. Mom points to him and says accusingly, "You're Hutch Blairman? The director of Danny Phantom's documentary?"

Blairman's beams at the recognition. "So, you've heard of me. As humans, perhaps you're also familiar with my previous alias, Butch Hart?"

"You're Butch Hart?" Dad pipes, almost bouncing. "Can I have your autograph?"

"Jack, he's a ghost!" Mom scolds.

"I thought you liked his work."

"I can like the work without liking the creator."

Odd. Blairman said that he died before he got the chance to make any movies. It's possible the movies my parents like were made after Blairman died, but why would they have been under his living name? Did he just not change his name until later? Or, was he lying to me?

Butch Hart, huh? I'll have to have Tucker look that up- No, I'll look it up myself, because the whole team is on vacation.

Blairman continues begging for my parents' cooperation until Mom finally shuts him down. She jams her finger into his chest and sends him a look that could melt even my ice. "Listen here, Blairman. It doesn't matter who you were as a human. What matters now is that you are a ghost." She spits out the word, and my chest seizes. "So, if you make one wrong move, we'll find out."

As she walks back to the Ghost Assault Vehicle parked nearby, Dad adds, "You're lucky our kids are sympathizers, or we'd shoot you point-blank. Stay out of trouble, and there won't be trouble." Then, he leans in with a hopeful smile. "Can I still have your autograph?" Mom hears this and facepalms.

"Of course, you can! I'm assuming you want my living name," Blairman says, pulling a pen and pad out of his trench coat. I don't think he heard anything else my parents said.

But, I heard. Mom and Dad have outright stated that they don't care who a spirit used to be. When they look at a ghost, they don't see a person. They see a dangerous creature that needs to be destroyed.

Even if that person is their own flesh and blood.

Reaper and Eileen pop into my head. Reaper opens their doors to anyone who needs a safe haven. Or, just wants to visit, which is what I'll be doing tomorrow with Mira and Eileen. Last week, I finally brought Sam, Tucker, and Jazz along, and Reaper was fine with three humans making themselves at home. They answered Sam's endless stream of questions. They let Tucker play with their phone. (It turns out that ghost phones are very different from human ones.) They let Jazz borrow a whole stack of books from their library. Reaper shows such effortless kindness to everyone, no matter what they look like or whether they still have a beating heart in their chest.

And, Eileen didn't become a vengeful spirit like my parents think happens when one becomes a ghost. She easily could have - turns out that the LGBT community and the Salem Witch Trials don't mix - but she didn't. Teaching is her Obsession. She doesn't have to mingle with humans to do that, but she does it anyway. I can't help feeling like she has Shapeshifting specifically for this purpose. And, she's so patient and provides a listening ear before passing judgment.

Why can't Jack and Maddie be more like Reaper and Eileen?

Why did I just think of my parents as "Jack and Maddie?"

Cujo senses my distress and whines softly before reaching up to lick my chin. The action is so sweet and so innocent that I almost break. I kiss his fuzzy head and hold him tighter.

"Phantom," a sing-song voice calls. Blairman. "Where'd you wander off to?"

Resigned to my fate, I regain visibility for both myself and Cujo and pretend everything's fine. "Over here, Blairman," I say. "Sorry. Uh, someone wanted my autograph?"

Though the excuse had come out as a question, Blairman buys it. He chuckles and walks up to me. "Ah, those crazy fans just can't resist, can they? Well, since the tour idea was a bust-"

"It's not a bust," I argue. "And, there are still cool places to show off!"

Blairman narrows his eyes. "Phantom, I believe you're speaking solely from nostalgia. This town is a snooze-fest! Well, Fenton Works looks interesting, but I hear that's where the ghost hunters live. I actually just ran into those guys, and they weren't very cooperative. And, I'd rather not annoy people who could destroy me with a push of a button."

"Amity Park is not a snooze-fest," I snap, choosing to ignore the rest of that statement. "No one's asking you to like it, Blairman. Not everyone wants to live in a big, crowded city. Some of us like the small town life."

Cujo barks in agreement, though I think he just wants to support me. Being a dog, he'd probably get a kick out of the sights and smells, mostly the smells, of the city.

Blairman raises his hands placatingly. "I meant no offense. I was going suggest that we go in a different direction." He grabs his camera out of the air and points it at Cujo, who makes a startled sound. "Tell me about this little guy. How'd you meet? What's the story there?"

Fine. If that's the way he wants to do it. "Let's talk at the park. Cujo loves it there. That will at least give me an excuse to show off more of the town," I add under my breath.

Cujo starts panting in excitement. Animal-ghosts can understand human speech, and he knows going to the park implies not only playtime, but extra attention from friendly humans. Naturally, people were wary at first of a dead dog who could grow to the size of a house if provoked. But, they started coming around once word got out that Cujo was Danny Phantom's pet. A shame he can't officially be my pet. Some day…

"Perfect!" Blairman chirps. "Then I can get more shots of him being adorable."

As I told the (heavily censored) story of how Cujo and I met, Blairman got plenty of footage of the dog-ghost's antics. I was pleased to see that, as he usually does, Cujo acted the way a well-behaved living dog would if you set him loose in a place filled with small children. As soon as I set him down, he bolted for the playground, catching the attention of all the kids. With my consent and their parents' supervision, the kids took turns petting him and giggling when he inevitably licked their hands and arms and faces. I had to assure the parents that the ectoplasm was harmless and didn't stain.

"He's so adorable when he isn't growling at you," Blairman comments, filming Cujo play-fighting with a beagle. The beagle's owner watches with a nervous expression even though I'd promised her that Cujo wouldn't hurt her dog.

"Yeah, he's something else," I say. I whistle, and both dogs freeze with their ears perked up. "Cujo! Come here, boy. Time to stop giving that poor woman a heart attack."

Cujo barks a goodbye to the beagle and runs over to me. The woman sighs in relief when Cujo plants his butt down in front of me. Blairman and I are still sitting on the bench when I bend over to scratch Cujo behind the ears. He pants happily with his tongue out and his tail wagging at the contact. When I straighten, Blairman tries to pet Cujo again, only to be growled at once more.

Blairman jerks back. "I guess he isn't used to me yet."

Right…

A little girl who saw the whole thing chimes in with an accusing, "If Phantom's doggy doesn't like you, it means you're mean!"

A slightly older boy next to her adds, "Cujo hates mean people! Phantom said so."

Blairman gapes at me like I did something wrong. I just shrug. "I didn't tell him to growl at you." I stand up. "So, what now? There are plenty of other boring sights to see." When Blairman casts a glance at Cujo, who is staring at the director with his pointed teeth bared and his ears back, I add, "And yes, the dog stays." He can help me keep Blairman under wraps.

"You said he can grow to the size of a house?" Blairman confirms.

"And, he's significantly less cute when he does so," I warn.

Blairman shivers and shoots to his feet. "You know, I think I've gotten enough footage for one day. We'll do more tomorrow."

"Tomorrow's Sunday," I remind him. "I've got my own thing going, remember?"

"Oh, yeah. Are you ever going to tell me what that thing is?"

"That depends." On whether or not I can trust him. Cujo's reaction solidifies the idea that I can't.

Blairman huffs. "Whatever. I'll see you Monday when Dash and Paulina's school lets out. And, uh, maybe leave the dog at home," he adds before taking off into the sky.

Cujo whines softly, and I say to him, "I don't know about him either, Cujo."

On my other side, I feel a light tug on my pant-leg. It's the little boy. "Is that man bad, Phantom?" No fear in his voice. Just honest curiosity.

I shrug. "Possibly."

"Are you gonna put him in that tube-thingy?"

It takes a moment to realize that he's talking about the Fenton Thermos. "Most likely. At the moment, I'm kind of seeing where this is going."

The little girl has a big smile on her face when she toddles up to the boy. "If he's bad, Phantom will stop him," she assures. "Phantom's a hero!"

Color creeps into my cheeks. If children are our future, then things are looking a little brighter. "I sure try to be."

"There's something off about Blairman. Not just because he's friends with Vlad and has no sense of boundaries."

My companion barks.

Cujo can't fly, so we exited the park on foot. I almost carried him into the sky, but I don't want to reach my destination - my house - too quickly. And, if I'm delayed further by the occasional brave soul who wants to talk to me and/or pet Cujo, well, that's hardly my fault.

The park was a nice distraction, but Blairman's talk with my parents remains on my mind. Maddie and Jack- Mom and Dad have implied before that they'd hate a ghost regardless of who they were in life. Now I have confirmation, and it leaves a heaviness in my chest. I know now that I can never tell them who I really am. Not unless I want to be a puddle of ectoplasm.

Cujo whines, sensing the shift in my mood. I just sigh. I can't vent to him about this in public.

"Hey, Phantom!" calls a voice I recognize.

Cujo and I turn around to see Dash bounding over to us. Football practice must be over. I didn't realize how long Blairman and I had been out.

As he approaches, and because I'm in ghost-form, I do what I always do when I'm this upset and paste on a smile. "Hey, Dash," I greet. "How was practice?"

Dash proudly raises his chin. "I'm crushing it. So's the rest of the team. No surprise there." I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Dash grins wider when he looks down at Cujo, who gazes curiously at him. "And, who's this little guy? I think I've seen him with you before. He is a him, right?"

"Yep," I confirm. "His name's Cujo. You can pet him if you want." If he'll let you, is what I mean.

"Don't mind if I do!" Dash kneels down. "Hey, little guy."

He lets Cujo sniff his hand, and the dog-ghost allows Dash to scratch him under his chin. I smile at another much-needed distraction.

Dash studies the tag on Cujo's spiked collar. The tag is gray with a sky blue "A" on it. "Isn't this the Axion Labs logo?"

"Yeah," I reply. "I think Cujo used to be a guard dog there. When we first met, he was looking for one of his old toys, and it was in the building."

Cujo wills that toy - a pink teddy bear - into his mouth. He bites down, and the toy makes a loud squeaky sound. His tail wags as he continues casually gnawing on it.

"Oh, cool," Dash says as he stands back up. "My own dog actually has the same toy, but his is blue."

"You have a dog?" I ask.

"Yeah. His name's Pookie." Dash gets a weird look on his face then puts his hands in his pockets and asks shyly, "Uh, maybe you could come over and meet him? My folks aren't home, so it would just be us and our dogs."

If you told me a week ago that I'd get invitations to both Paulina's and Dash's houses in the span of a few days, I would have laughed in your face. Now, I cover my shock by placing my hands over my core and batting my eyes. "Why, Dash Baxter, you haven't even bought me dinner yet."

Dash cringes. "Sorry! Is that, like, a ghost custom? 'Cause, I could-"

I groan and let my hands fall to my sides. "My material is wasted on you." Dash grins sheepishly. "Sure, I can hang for a while." As Dash relaxes, I ask my dog, "Wanna meet Dash's dog, Cujo?"

The squeaky toy vanishes, and Cujo belts out an eager yap.

"Sweet!" Dash says with a fist pump. "My place isn't that far a walk. Or, do ghosts prefer flying?"

"We can walk," I say. Maybe I am a coward, but I'll put off going home for as long as I can.

Like the Sanchez's, the Baxter family isn't hurting for money. Despite this, Dash's house is quite modest. When I point this out, Dash says that his parents don't like to flaunt their money. As a middle-class nobody whose arch nemesis has a habit of reminding everyone how rich he is - while leaving out his method of obtaining his money - I feel a certain respect for Dash's parents.

Dash requests that I phase him into the building for fun. But, I saw him patting himself down, and I'm pretty sure he just forgot his key. I humor him and place my hand on his back before leading him quite literally through the door with Cujo close behind.

"That was a weird sensation," he comments with a grimace.

I swallow a laugh. Ghosts feel next to nothing when they go intangible. Humans, I've learned, get a pins-and-needles feeling all over when it happens to them.

"Nice place," I say, looking around.

This living room isn't that different from my own, minus the flatscreen TV. There's a plush pale orange couch in front of it and a matching recliner. There's a half-finished needlepoint project on the couch. It looks like some kind of animal. The coffee table is made of light brown wood and is littered with magazines about sports and…crocheting? Mrs. Baxter must be into that. (It would explain why her son has a closet full of plushies.) Pictures of Dash and two people I assume are his parents dot the walls. I like Dash's house better than Paulina's. Hers is nice in a "could be a museum" kind of way, but Dash's actually looks like people live here.

Dash cups a hand around his mouth. "Pookie! Here, boy!"

Right on cue, a flurry of high-pitched barking is heard. A tiny brown creature with black rings around its eyes zooms in on stick-like legs. Knowing Dash, I'd expected a big dog, like a great dane or a rottweiler. Certainly not a cute little chihuahua. Suddenly, the name "Pookie" makes sense.

Pookie freezes in place upon seeing Cujo. Dash and I watch in amusement as the two small dogs carefully approach each other. We laugh once the inevitable butt sniffing ensues. Even better that they're walking in circles while doing so.

"Why do dogs do that?" I giggle.

"Who knows?" Dash says. "Pookie." The chihuahua stops sniffing and raises his head. "C'mere, boy. Come meet daddy's friend."

Friend. Dash Baxter just called me his friend, and I'm not sure how I feel about it.

Pookie finally notices me and scampers over with some welcoming yaps. I say hello and kneel down to let him sniff my hand. I huff a laugh when he almost instantly licks my glove. As I'm giving Pookie's head a firm rub, Cujo headbutts his way in so that I have no choice but to pet him too.

"You're a popular guy," Dash chuckles.

I reluctantly stand up. "Despite what the media tells you, animals don't hate ghosts. Not the nice ones, anyway," I add, thinking of Mira's chihuahua, Yippy, and his hatred of Mira's apparently murderous ex-boyfriend.

That fucker is in Walker's Prison now. I hope Walker and his goons are giving Levi what he deserves.

Dash coughs into his fist and suddenly seems nervous. "Uh, make yourself comfortable. I guess."

I snort. "You guess? Dude, you invited me."

Dash puts his hands in his pockets and let out an awkward. "I, uh… It was…kind of spur of the moment."

Still, we've spent enough time together already. Then, it hits me. This is because of my confession yesterday. My Compulsion-fueled confession. (Screw you, Blairman and Plasmius.) Dash must have just remembered that, and now he knows he invited a loser into his house. I must be making him uncomfortable. Maybe he wants to kick me out now. Literally.

I shove the hurt aside and play the cocky hero card that's expected of me. "Well, I'm here now, and our dogs are getting along." Said dogs had wandered in front of the TV and are now playing tug-of-war with a bright orange rope toy that was sitting there.

As I turn back to Dash, I catch sight of a picture on the wall behind him. I walk over for a closer look. The picture features a younger Dash - nine or ten years old and significantly less bulky - and two people who are presumably his parents. There's a beefy guy who resembles Dash quite a bit, sharing the same blond hair and facial features. But, my eyes are drawn to the woman with the red hair pulled into a low bun and wearing a dark green uniform that I've seen before.

"Your mom's in the military?" I ask.

Dash fights a sigh of relief at the broken tension. "She's a Marine," he says proudly. "She's over-seas."

"Hm. Do you know where?"

Dash has a hint of wistfulness in his voice. "I don't think I'm allowed to tell anyone. But, I know she's doing some really important stuff."

"No doubt about that." I turn back to the photo and smile and fight the urge to salute. "You ever think about doing that?" I ask, remembering how Dash doesn't know what to do with his life.

"I used to," Dash admits. "But, I don't know if I'm cut out for it." I look at him in question. He looks away shyly. "I'm tough but not that tough. You've seen me during ghost attacks."

As in, I've seen him run away screaming. But, I haven't forgotten that time he joined forces with my human-self when Ember and Youngblood brought over their pirate friends. Nor, did I forget that time Dash, Skulker, and I got shrunk to the size of ants - thanks a lot, Dad - and Dash and my ghost-self and my slowing draining power had to work together to get back to normal-size while avoiding Skulker.

"But, when the chips were down," I summarize, "I've seen you fight back, even if you needed some encouragement to get there. You can be pretty impressive when you want to be."

Holy shit, I just made Dash Baxter blush. And, it wasn't in an angry "my name is Dash Baxter, you made me look like an idiot, prepare to die" way. He is happy and flattered by something I said. By something a total loser said.

Reality just flipped over.

"Can I show you something?" Dash asks. "It's kind of a secret, but I feel like you won't laugh."

I blink back into existence. "Uh, sure."

Dash walks to the couch and picks up the half-finished plush toy, which is still attached to a pink yarn ball by a strand. "I, uh," he blushes harder. "I make things."

I picture his stuffed animal collection and try to wrap my head around this new information. I'd just assumed his mother, who I now know has been away for a presumably long time, was the reason for that collection. Instead, the guy who boasts about his football prowess and preys on any guy who doesn't fit his standards of manliness crochets stuffed animals as a hobby.

When all I'm capable of doing is staring, Dash sheepishly drops the project back on the couch. "I know. It's girly."

I shake my brain loose. "I'm-I'm sorry. I didn't mean to stare. It's just, uh, unexpected."

Dash smiles a little in understanding. "Like Paulina being into cars? I guess we all have our thing." He scratches his head, and his smile turns nostalgic. "It was actually my nanny who got me into it."

"You have a nanny?"

"Had. She left when I was old enough to look after myself. We visit each other, though." We jump then laugh when our dogs weave around us in whatever game they're playing now. "These days, Pookie keeps me company."

His words bother me. "I get that your mom's away a lot, but what about your dad?"

"I told you he plays football. He's home more often than Mom, but he's away a lot, too." Dash bends down and grabs a copy of Sports Illustrated off the coffee table. "This is him," he says, beaming as he shows off the cover. It features the guy from the picture on the wall. On the magazine, he is in his football gear and running with the ball in his hands. "He's in Wisconsin right now. The team's playing against the Green Bay Packers."

I think of Vlad's non-ghostly obsession and say, "I'll root for any team who plays against the Packers."

Dash gets a funny look then laughs. "Oh, right. Wisconsin Ghost."

I grin and raise my hands. "Nothing against the Packers. It just annoys him when they lose."

Dash laughs again and tosses the magazine back with the others. "Yeah, I'm alone with Pookie most of the time. Guess that's why I got so into crocheting. It keeps me busy."

My heart goes out to him. My parents work from home, but they get so involved in their work. Growing up, sometimes it felt like it was just me and Jazz in the house.

(These days, I wish it was just me and Jazz.)

"How busy we talking?" I ask.

He gives me an embarrassed smile before leading me upstairs and into his bedroom, which is messy with strewn about clothes and an unmade bed. The room is decorated with football memorabilia and a few posters, including one for the band, Dumpty Humpty, and one of the web series, "Helluva Boss."

"Love that show," I say, nodding to the poster. "Stolas is my favorite character."

"Mine's Fizzarolli," Dash says. "I didn't like him at first, but he grows on you."

"That, he does," I agree. "So, what did you wanna show me?" Dash has his hand on the closet door knob, so I think I already know.

Dash opens the door and reveals the many, many stuffed animals of various species and colors piled up in there. I discovered his collection purely by accident when I phased into his closet during a ghost attack. I later used my powers to stuff a bunch of his plushies in his locker in one of several revenge pranks early on in my undead career. Now that I know the story behind them, I feel bad about that. Not very, though. He had it coming.

I feign surprise at the sight. "Wow. You have been busy."

"My nanny made one for me every birthday, still does even though I'm older, and one year, I asked her to teach me how to do it myself." He chuckles. "Guess I never stopped."

No, he didn't. I step forward and pick up the closest one, a dark blue tiger with white stripes. I examine it, impressed by the craftsmanship. I set the tiger down and gaze at the sea of animals, thinking how any one of them could become some kid's favorite toy. And, Christmas is only a month away, so…

"Can I have two of these?" I ask. When Dash blinks in surprise, I explain. "There are some ghost-kids I know. They love when I show them Earth stuff, and I think these would make good Christmas gifts. I'll pay you."

Dash's eyes light up, and he throws his hand toward the plushies. "Take 'em! These are just collecting dust anyway. Someone should get some use out of them."

"Thanks!" I get down on my hands and knees and crawl into the mass, trying to decide which ones Bub and Cornelius would like the most. Though, I'm sure they'd like any of them. "How much do you want?"

"I said, take 'em, Phantom. You don't have to pay me."

I look at him over my shoulder. "Are you sure?"

Dash nods. "You do anything and everything for this town. You could swipe all of these, for all I care!"

I turn away so he can't see how touched I am. Then, something occurs to me, and I stand up. "You know, you could sell these. People pay big bucks for handmade stuff."

"What, you mean, like, do it for a living?" Dash asks.

"You could," I suggest. "If not, you could still sell them on the side, if you don't know what else to do with them."

Dash ponders that while I get back to scanning the plushies. Eventually, I settle on a yellow mouse with orange ears and a mint-green rabbit with a pink tail and belly. I'll decide who gets what later.

"I meant what I said," I say, rising and clutching one toy in each hand. "Sell them. I know you don't need the money, but it's certainly something to do. You might even get requests!"

Dash bites his lip. "I-I don't know. I've got a reputation, and this is…"

"Girl stuff?" I raise an eyebrow. "Dash, you're the last person I'd expect to care about what people think."

"I just don't want people making fun of me, okay?" Dash admits.

I can only gawk at him until my brain processes what he just said. "You don't want to be made fun of."

"'Course not."

"You don't want people making fun of you, yet it's okay if you make fun of them."

Dash opens his mouth, closes it, rinse and repeat. Finally, he says lamely, "It's different."

Something curdles inside me. "Different how? How is it different, Dash? If someone like-like Danny Fenton or Tucker Foley crocheted for fun, you'd mock them relentlessly! How do you think they would feel about that?"

Dash makes some noises before saying, "It's different," again.

Which only pisses me off more. I take a few breaths before I destroy something, preferably something with blond hair and muscles. After forming a response, I point to him with the rabbit. "Let me tell you something, Dash Baxter. Whoever said that words can never hurt you was probably a bully, himself. Words hurt more than any sticks or stones. Imagine having cruel words tossed in your direction on a daily basis. Imagine if someone who didn't even know you started hitting you and pushing you around. The first time it happens, you're more angry than anything. The second time makes you think. Did you do something wrong? Did you say something offensive? Then, it happens again and again. Suddenly, it's routine. You're so used to looking over your shoulder and trying to blend in that-that hiding becomes second nature. But, you shrug it off. You smile and when the few friends you have ask if you're okay, you act like it's nothing more than an inconvenience. Because, you don't want to burden the people you love with your problems. Because at that point...you feel like your mere existence is a burden." A tear falls down my cheek as I look one of my worst tormentors in the eye. "That's what it feels like, Dash."

Dash says nothing. He only makes a face like I set his stuffed animals on fire.

"Remember that the next time you feel like hurting someone." With nothing left to say, I walk past him and start for the exit.

His next words seem to fly out of his mouth. "Did you kill yourself?"

I stop cold and whirl around, hoping and praying that I heard wrong. "Come again?"

Dash knocks his fingers together and looks anywhere else. "I know I'm not supposed to ask about your death, but… Well, with-with what you said yesterday... And-and now, you… It's been weighing on me-"

"No!" I almost shout. "No, no, no, no! I did not commit suicide. I promise."

Dash lets out a breath that relaxes his whole body. "Okay. Okay, good." Some of the tension returns. "Is that, like," he twirls his hand, considering, "a thing, though? Do people who get picked on…do that a lot?"

For a guy who's roughly seven feet tall, Dash seems so very small now. Hope warms me. I think I'm getting through to him. "I don't know the statistics, but…I do know it can happen." The color drains from Dash's face. It's nice to see that he does in fact have a conscience. "When a person is in that mindset, all it takes is one wrong word to ruin everything. It's like I said yesterday; you don't know what's in someone's head. Or, what they're capable of."

I collect Cujo, who insists on coming with me even though he's having fun with Pookie, and head on my way.