“That’s because I almost died,” Cora said matter-of-factly, picking up the notebook and flipping through the empty pages. “She’s being super nice and it is so weird. Everyone is being really nice. Even Jordyn. It’s weird.”

For the next thirty minutes, Cora and I chatted. Though I tried to steer our conversation toward the night at the train yard and her relationships, Cora revealed little. After a while, she fell silent and I watched as she doodled in her new journal, writing random words on the page in rounded cursive. Dotting each i and j with a small heart.

It was sad knowing that only one of Cora’s friends made the trip to the hospital to visit her and even that seemed a bit forced. From my spot in the doorway, I was able to somewhat covertly watch the interactions: the grandfather nudging the girl toward Cora, prompting her to give Cora the present. Mara Landry’s clenched fists contrasted by her smooth, emotionless face. The friend’s repulsed expression upon first seeing Cora’s skull with its railroad track of staples. Kendall’s extreme reaction to seeing Cora’s friend there. And there was something else, too. Guilt, perhaps regret. I wasn’t sure.

I was just getting ready to wrap things up when Cora asked, “Do you believe in ghosts?”

This seemed like such a simple question, but I knew I had to answer thoughtfully, carefully. I had a sense that for the first time she was getting ready to talk to me about Joseph Wither. “What kind of ghosts?” I asked.

Cora started lightly sketching in her journal. A child’s drawing of a ghost covered in a sheet, black circles for eyes. “The ones that talk to you,” she said, adding a sky full of stars.

“I’ve never had a ghost talk to me,” I answered. “How about you? Do ghosts talk to you?” I asked.

She shrugged. “When I was little I thought ghosts looked like this.” She tapped on the picture she had drawn. “I thought there was a ghost who hid in the vent in my bedroom. When the cold or hot air came through it, I thought it was the ghost whispering to me.”

“What did the ghost say?” I asked, intrigued.

“Nothing special, really. My name mostly. Someone breathing, scratching sometimes.” Cora paused in her drawing and peeked up at me to gauge my reaction.

“That must have been frightening,” I offered.

“No, not really. They didn’t scare me,” she said lightly. “They were friendly. I called them Bebe and Billy. My dad got sick of me talking about them so I stopped.”

It isn’t uncommon in young children to have imaginary friends so this revelation didn’t surprise me. “How about now?” I asked, hoping we were getting to Joseph Wither.