“Weren’t you the one always trying to get me to eat healthier?” I mused.

“Bite me,” she mumbled through a mouthful of food. “Freaking ice age out there. Gotta have fats, proteins, carbs, just to get my furnace going, keep my body temperature up.”

“You know what else would keep it up?” I asked her. “Being indoors.”

She snorted and ignored me for several minutes, venting a ravenous appetite onto the food. I watched her and found it oddly fulfilling. I’d been looking out for the grasshopper for a while. It made me feel good to see her hunger being satisfied because of something I had done.

I guess ghosts have to take pleasure in the little victories—just like everyone else.

I waited until she was cleaning up the remains to ask, “So. What’s with the Ophelia act in front of Murphy and company?”

She froze for a second, then continued moving bits and pieces around her plate with somewhat less enthusiasm. “It isn’t…” She exhaled slowly, and her eyes moved around the room restlessly. “There’s more than one reason.”

“I’m listening,” I said.

“Well. Who says it’s an act?” She flipped a couple of bits of hash brown onto her fork and then into her mouth. “Look at me. I’m sitting here talking to my dead mentor. And half the restaurant is worried about it.”

I looked around. She was getting covert stares, all right. “Yeah, but there’s hardly anyone here.”

She laughed a bit harshly. “That makes me feel better.” She put her cup of hot chocolate to her lips and just held it there, trails of steam curling up around her blue eyes. “So. You’ve finally been inside me. I feel like I should be offering you a cigarette.”

I choked and had to clear my throat. “Um. It wasn’t like that, kid.”

“Of course it wasn’t,” she said, an edge in her voice. “It never was. Not for you.”

I rubbed at the back of my neck. “Molly. When I met you…”

“I was a child who didn’t need a bra,” she said.

“It’s about your father, too,” I said. “Michael—”

“Is the uncle you never had,” she said, her voice still calm but crisp. “You’ve always wanted his approval. Because he’s a good man, and if he approves of you, you can’t be a total wreck.”

I scowled at her. “I’ve never said that,” I said.

She looked at me through wisps of steam and said, “But it’s true all the same. I had that worked out by the time I was about seventeen. You were afraid that if you touched me, you’d be losing his approval. That it would make you some kind of monster.”

“I was afraid that I’d be losing my approval of me,” I responded. “And not a monster, Molly. Just an asshole.”

“When I was a child,” she said, still speaking very quietly, “you’d have been right. I’m in my mid-twenties, Harry. I’m not a child.”

“Don’t remind—” I paused. Then I said, “I was going to make an old-age joke.” I looked down at my immaterial self. “But all things considered…”