“Bullshit,” Jackson quickly chimes in. “You’re just not sleeping. It’s those pills. You need to get off them.”

“She’s had the same dream for months,” Elliot says.

Jackson’s girlfriend, Beth, turns around in the front seat. Her blonde, silky hair cascades around her face. She could be a model if she wasn’t so obsessed with my brother. “Maybe you should go see someone?” she says.

“Yeah, because she’s loaded.” Jackson rolls his eyes. My brother, like my father, would rather die by firing squad than go to any kind of shrink. It’s partly my mother’s fault. She was such a believer in things that go bump in the night, my father spent most of our childhood trying to prove her wrong. “Remember what we talked about, Ange,” Jackson says. “It’s all in your head. Best thing for you would be to quit. Cold turkey.”

A low ache wraps around my rib cage. When my mother was alive she used to call my recurring dreams premonitions. She’d always tell me to keep a dream journal to watch out for patterns, but I never could get myself to write in one. I wanted my dreams to stay in my head. Committing them to paper made the images more real.

“You have to admit,” Jackson says. “Lately, you’ve been nervous. More than usual.”

I don’t say anything. I’m not sure how to react, because he’s right. Jackson glances at me in the rear view mirror. “We need to stop hiding,” he says.

“So, you too?” I say. Jackson may not be on meds, but I know he has a secret stash of all kinds of fun stuff back home: oxy, booze, grass, snuff…

“Sure, Ange.” Jackson grips the steering wheel. “I guess. But you’re my main concern. Have you slept this week?”

I haven’t, but I don’t see what that has to do with anything.

“After this gig then, we should try it. I’m just saying.”

“Maybe.”

“Those pills have never been good for you. Maybe they helped a little growing up, with all that was going on, with Mom’s condition and going broke. It’s time. To move forward.”

Beth places a hand on his thigh. He smiles at her.

“I’ll think about it,” I say, and I mean it. I really will. The truth is I’m terrified about going off them, but I’d never tell Jackson that. He thinks fear is for the weak.

A blue volkswagon pulls up in the driveway and a sixty-something man wearing a plaid shirt gets out of the driver’s seat. Jackson flashes his trademark smile, all charisma and white teeth. “Mr. Hampton. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Mr. Hampton returns Jackson’s smile with a timid upturn of his lips. “You the ghost catching people?” he asks.

“That’s right. As you requested,” Jackson replies.