Somehow, through the dark slosh filling his mind, Turner was aware of the passage of time. Unless he was dreaming all of that instead of actually hearing what people were telling him, weeks had passed since he’d sunk into the abyss.

Like in the movies, time moved differently in dreams, and a month’s long adventure could’ve unfolded over one stretch of sleep. Sometimes only a few hours.

Except, what he was experiencing didn’t feel like dreams. There were no visuals to accompany the stories he was told, and many of them had happened in time periods he had no reference for.

Like Anandur’s war stories, or Carol’s adventures in pre-Revolution France. Those were his favorite because they were funny and racy. Carol wasn’t shy.

But the other stories she’d told him, the ones about her capture and torture, those he had plenty of reference for. Except for the immortal part. He could’ve never imagined the horror of healing over and over again, of the endless suffering and the inability to escape into death.

He’d never thought of death as the ultimate liberator. The one downside of immortality was the body’s ability to withstand injury after injury and not give up.

Julian read him science fiction books and alien conspiracy theories from the absurd to the fascinating. Roni talked about hacking into government programs, some of which Turner had never heard of.

Would he remember all of that when he finally woke up? Or at least some of it?

Was he going to wake up?

“Good evening, love,” Bridget said.

Turner wondered if she followed the greeting with a kiss, but he had no sensation in his body. Out of all his senses, it seemed that only his hearing still functioned. Unless he was making all of this up in his head. A strange dream with no visuals, only sounds.

“You’re not making it up, Victor,” an unfamiliar male voice said.

“Who are you? And how come you can hear me?”

It was the first time any of his visitors had responded to what he was saying inside his head.

“I’m not out there. I’m inside you. I’m a ghost.”

Okay, that was proof that he was making all of this up. Ghosts didn’t exist.

“Says who? The fact that most people can’t hear us doesn’t mean we are nonexistent. Can you hear or see electromagnetic fields? Can you pick up radio transmissions in your head?”

“I’m going to take a quick shower and then snuggle up with you in bed.” That was Bridget, not the guy who claimed to be a ghost.

Thankfully, Turner’s imagination had gotten it straight.

“Straight is overrated,” the male voice said. “Besides, I wouldn’t snuggle with you. You’re not my type. You’re smart, and I like that, but you’re too uptight.”

This was getting more confusing by the moment. Was his mind misfiring? Was this the end?

“Oh, stop being so melodramatic. It doesn’t suit you. This is not the end. This is the beginning. I’m here to help pull you back.”

“How are you going to do it? Sprinkle me with magic dust?”

The ghost laughed. “I’m not that kind of a fairy.”

This was ridiculous. Why the hell was his brain making such weird constructs?

Did it matter, though?

It was entertaining. Maybe he was discovering a new side of himself that was more humorous, and less uptight than the ghost had accused. Besides, it wasn’t as if he had anything better to do.

“I’ll play along. What kind of a fairy are you?”

“When I was still alive, I would have answered that I was a hairy fairy, but I no longer have a body.” The ghost laughed at his own joke. “Now listen closely, and do as I say. Maybe you can surprise your lady love when she comes out of the shower.”

“Surprise her how?”

“By opening your eyes, of course.”

“If you can do this for me, I will never again doubt the existence of ghosts.”

“I don’t care either way. That’s not why I’m here. Someone dear to me asked me to help you. You’re a lucky guy to have such good friends.”

“Who was it?”

“That’s between her and me.”

“Bridget?” Did she have a ghostly friend?

“No, not Bridget. Focus, Victor, you’re getting distracted by your curiosity.”

“Okay. No more questions. What do you want me to do?”

The ghost chuckled. “That’s a question. But never mind. Do you see a tiny spot of light in the distance?”

Up until now, Turner had seen nothing but darkness. The part of his brain that was in charge of visuals hadn’t been working ever since he’d gone under. But he focused anyway, searching the darkness for the tiny spot the ghost wanted him to find.

“I don’t see anything. I’m in complete darkness.”

“Oh, that’s my fault. Wait a minute and let me concentrate. I need to produce a flare.” After a couple of seconds, the voice asked, “Can you see me now?”

Turner searched the dark void. “Hey, I can see something!” He was probably imagining it, but after days on end with nothing but black, he was happy to welcome anything, even an imaginary point of light.

“Good. Now picture yourself reaching for it.”

Turner couldn’t imagine moving a limb, or even stretching his neck. As a last resort, he imagined his soul elongating and becoming a long string. But the string behaved more like a puff of smoke, meandering through the black void instead of shooting for the spot.

He was never going to connect to it like that.

“Imagine that you’re an arrow, shooting toward me.”

“More like a harpoon that I’m attached to.”

“Whatever works, man, just hurry, I can’t hold the flare for much longer. It’s draining my energy.”