Shelly rolls over so she’s facing Grandma, squeezing her eyes shut as she starts to cry. When she makes herself really think it through, it’s obvious—Mom isn’t coming back. Her ghost isn’t going to show up one day. Shelly’s been chasing her mother’s ghost, looking for her everywhere, even some places that didn’t make sense. But she’s moved on to whatever comes next and Shelly’s been chasing after something she’s never going to find.

Shelly’s mom didn’t like ghosts very much. In the photo Shelly has in her backpack, the one of her and her mom when Shelly was small, her mom even has short hair—hair way too short to catch the dead. Maybe Joseph and her mom have two things in common—their taste in music and thinking that haunting Shelly would be bad for her.

Shelly inhales shakily and wipes at her eyes. Her hair feels heavy, even without the ghosts. It feels like too much to carry. Like a burden.

Except her mom had it short before, in the photo. Shelly doesn’t have to have it long. If she cuts it, she won’t be able to catch the dead until it grows out. She won’t be able to help Grandma on jobs for a while. But suddenly, the thought of not having to deal with ghosts for a while just sounds . . . like a relief.

No more bringing the dead home. No more searching for her mom.

It’s a way to say goodbye.

• • •

In the morning, Grandma makes bacon and eggs for breakfast. Shelly thought she’d be in trouble if Grandma ever found her ghosts, but Grandma’s being kind about it. She serves Shelly and then sits down with her own food, watching Shelly pick at her plate.

“I know you’re upset about Joseph and the other ghosts,” Grandma says, “but they had to move on, Shelly.”

“I know.” Shelly looks up at Grandma. She’s upset, but she understands better now. Mostly she’s thinking about the decision she made the night before. This morning, she’s certain. “I want to cut my hair.”

Grandma pauses with her fork halfway to her mouth. “Your hair?” she repeats. “Shelly, are you sure? That’s a big decision.”

Shelly is sure. Even just saying the words feels right. It’s time to cut her hair so it can grow out new and shiny, not tangled up with the dead, not dragging at her shoulders with the weight of the memories it carries. “Yes,” she says. “I need to.”

Grandma hesitates, then nods. “Okay. Do you want to wait? So you’re really sure?”

“I’m really sure,” says Shelly, because she is. She wants it gone. “Can we do it now? Please?”