“I don’t know. But my Cooper knows what it is. He just won’t tell me and now I’m worried why.”

A grim smile crept into the corners of Marge’s thin lips. “Trouble in paradise, eh?”

“I guess.”

“And now the Returned are falling into a trance all over town.”

“Yes,” said Peter quietly. “Cooper too.”

“No wonder you don’t want to go home.”

“No.”

“Well, don’t be getting cosy here. You know I can’t stand the sight of you.”

“I can stay for this evening’s screening.”

“You can stay for five minutes.”

Marge stood at the door to her office, so Peter zipped his parka up, feeling the inevitable pull of home, when something far deeper called out to him and he stopped. He pressed his nose to the glass, ridding it of his reflection, and gazed out into the flurrying snow.

“Did you hear that?” he whispered.

“Of course I heard it.”

“The wolves, I mean.”

“Yes. The wolves.”

“They’re out there.”

“Go home, Peter.”

“They’re out there.”

“Yes,” said Marge. “They’re out there. The Dead are out there. The whole world is out there and we’re in here.”

“But—”

“But nothing.”

“But, Marge.”

Marge stopped and for a moment Peter wasn’t sure if she was going to snap at him for daring to use her name. But she didn’t. Her head turned so her face was in profile across her shoulder as if she accepted the invitation of intimacy and Peter quietly stepped away from the lobby entrance.

“Do you think that when the Dead pass through someone, they leave part of themselves behind?”

Marge’s eyes narrowed. But ridicule didn’t cross them once. “Like a ghost, you mean?”

“I suppose,” said Peter. Then, “Yes, like a ghost.”

“No one gets through life without picking up unwanted ghosts. Not even Perfect Peter.”

“I’m not perfect.”

Marge grumbled. “How perfect of you to say so.”

“But do you? Do you think it’s possible?”

“Everyone lives with a ghost inside them. Sometimes many. Grief. Anger. Bereavement. The love you hold for someone who no longer loves you back.”

Peter felt a sharp tug in his stomach. “Why wouldn’t someone love you back?”

“Maybe they’re dead. Maybe they’re not. Maybe the love they felt for you has died but yours hasn’t.”

The wolf cried again. Distant this time. Further back inside the hills somewhere.

“And do you know what love does when it can’t give itself away to that person any more?” Marge went on.

Peter shook his head but no words came out.

“Well, do you?”

“No,” said Peter. “No, I don’t know.”