“Ghosts, no. Memories, yes.”

A wall goes up behind Danny’s eyes, like it always did when they were kids. Eric knew his relationship with his parents was screwed up, but he couldn’t imagine what it was like growing up as the latest model in the Sharp product line.

The clerk goes into the back room, doing whatever it is hotel clerks do back there — honestly, Eric has worked in hotels in Vegas for more than a decade, and he still has no clue — giving them a moment to talk.

“Look,” he says, “about what Alana said — ”

“It doesn’t matter,” Danny says.

“It kind of does. She’s not wrong, Danny. This is all my fault. If I’d died, like I was supposed to, maybe Colchester would have stayed dead.”

“Maybe. Or maybe not. I never believed in prophecies. I barely believed in what you could do, and I saw it. It seems a little vain to assume that an entire Apocalypse depends on one person. But it doesn’t matter now. The town is still here. We’re still here. We’ll deal with it.”

He shrugs, as if that settles it. God, Eric has almost missed Danny’s lunatic self-assurance, his arrogant belief that every problem can be solved with the right application of knowledge and effort.

“Why are you doing this?” Eric asks, which he has to admit is not terribly gracious. But he really wants to know.

Danny gives him a does-not-compute look. “What do you mean?”

“Why do you keep helping me? The rehab, the loans, the car I crashed — ”

Danny looks annoyed, like he can’t believe they’re still talking about this. “You’re my friend.”

That’s probably the scariest thing Eric has ever heard come out of Danny’s mouth.

Danny smiles. “Anyway. There are a lot of other people I’d rather see dead than you.”

Eric smiles back, despite himself. “You know, just because you’re the smartest guy in the room doesn’t mean you’re always right.”

“Only 99 percent of the time. And just because you’re a magician doesn’t mean you can wave a wand and solve everything.”

“Wands are for losers.”

The clerk returns with their keys. Danny signs the receipt.

They don’t talk as they ride in the elevator together. Eric’s room is a few doors down from Danny’s.

“I don’t want to see any porn on the bill,” Danny says before his door clicks shut.

Still a prick, Eric thinks.

There’s a room-service tray sitting on the floor in the hall. Eric stops and picks up the salt shaker. Unscrewing the cap, he pours a thin line across the threshold of his room. He hesitates for a moment, and does the same in front of Danny’s room, even if he is a prick.