“In Tibetan Buddhism, hungry ghosts are these demons who keep trying to fill the holes inside them with people and things and experiences, but nothing ever satisfies,” she says. “Never fills the hole. Never gives them lasting happiness. It’s a fucked-up, never-ending cycle of misery. They live with the illusion that happiness comes from outside themselves, so they keep looking for the thing that will give it to them. Until they realize there is nothing in this world that will give them happiness, they will keep starving.”

I stare at her. “Like in Bleach.”

“What’s that?”

“This manga series I love. There are these monsters that the main character has to fight—they’re called Hollows. Ghosts who haven’t passed over. They terrorize the living because they have unfinished business, and they roam around, trying to feed their souls, but it doesn’t work, and then Reapers have to kill them for good or send them to a better place.”

“Cool. When I’m done reading about gender constructs in the eighteenth century, I’ll have to check it out.” I laugh. Wow, am I glad I chose the sciences. “Yeah—hungry ghosts are definitely hollow. That’s a good way of thinking about it. It’s like when you’re sad, and you think a new girlfriend or a new haircut or outfit will make you happier. But you get those things, and you still feel empty inside. Our suffering comes because we think people or things are for keeps. They’re not. Or we think they’ll solve our problems. They won’t.”

“My sister’s a hungry ghost,” I say. “I think she’s been one for a long time.” I frown. “But I don’t understand why. I mean, it would almost make sense if I were the one with the problems—being a foster kid, all that. Hannah had this perfect life—my parents, good school, money. She’s so pretty. When she’s not on pills, she’s really funny and weird, but good weird. I know she has depression—even before my parents died, I knew that. I just don’t understand why. Or how to convert her sadness into something like happiness.”

“You can’t make her better, Mae. That’s Hannah’s job.”

The train lurches to another stop—I glance at the sign on the platform. One more.

“But she can’t do her job—of getting better. She needs help. She needs me. Or … someone. Something. I don’t know.”

I feel like I’m saying Ben’s favorite words more and more these days. I hate that I can know so much about astrophysics and so little about human beings. Drew was right about me getting an A in AP Psych, but I don’t know how that happened.

“Do you think you can control what’s going on inside her?” River asks. “Or that you can fill the hollowness she’s experiencing?”