“How can I be sure? I don’t like the idea of having a direct line to the dead, Jerram. Or maybe I’m just going crazy, you know, hearing voices, having visions. Isn’t that called schizophrenia?”

“You’re not crazy.”

“Maybe I need to see a psychiatrist.”

“You don’t need a psychiatrist. Come on.” “But I need to talk to someone, or I will go crazy.”

“You’re talking to me, aren’t you?” Jerram frowned. “Although I wonder why, since you’re not interested in my advice.”

“What do you mean?”

“You never spoke to Old Mackey.”

It was true, she hadn’t.

“And of course you feel free to spout off to people, when it suits you,” Jerram said in a tight voice.

“What people? I’ve only told you and that Detective O’Hara.”

“And your friend.”

“You mean Grace?”

Jerram gave the slightest sneer. “No, not Grace,” he said impatiently. “I was thinking of that dingdong from the cafeteria.”

Rose was befuddled. “Who?”

“What’s-his-face. Daniel?”

She felt furious. “He is not a dingdong, if you don’t mind. And I haven’t told him anything.” Jerram had been so solicitous a moment ago. Now he was agitated. He jumped up from the end of his bed and began to rearrange his untidy desk with his back to her. After a moment, he turned around and seemed more like her old Jerram again.

“I just want to protect you. People can be so cruel. You and me, we can accept sharing dreams, ESP. Outsiders will misunderstand.”

“You’re right, I know,” she said, although she couldn’t imagine Daniel being cruel in that way. “But look, why is it only me having these dreams? Why not you, too? We always dreamed the same dreams. How come you didn’t dream about Nancy?”

Jerram’s face was bleak. “I don’t know.”

They always used to share their dreams, especially when they had shared a room. Rose would dream the beginning and he’d dream the end. They told their parents about it and were punished for making up stories. Jerram, always the practical thinker, even at age ten, decided they’d better keep it quiet from then on. “It’ll be our secret, Rose-ear,” he’d said. He began writing the dreams down and still had the notebook somewhere. They thought they were safe, but they probably whispered about it too much, putting their heads together as soon as they woke up. Mom and Dad noticed. Visits to a psychologist ensued, tests and games with dolls and an invitation to share all kinds of private thoughts with the strange man with the black glasses.