“It might not have done much good anyway,” he said, and I didn’t know if he meant there was just too much space here ... or that my spell only applied to the living.

As we rounded the corner, we saw an old sedan pulled up near a back door to the sawmill. Someone had slapped a magnetic sign on the door. R. G. Ballard Security.

“Seems we have security after all,” Adam said. “No need to worry, then. We can get back in the Jeep ...” He caught my look and sighed.

“Cut it out, okay?” I said. “A security car doesn’t mean a security guard. The owner probably stuck that magnet on a clunker, and parked it here to make it look like the place was guarded.”

“Easy enough to check.” Adam took out his cell. He dialed the number on the magnet, frowned, then swore. “No signal.”

“Seriously?” I tried mine. Same thing. “It worked out by the road. I’ll run back and—”

He caught my arm. “Let’s just get this over with.”

THE RECEIVING DOORS were open. We stepped into a big room with an old metal desk and a whiteboard covered with the ghosts of words and numbers. A pair of work boots sat forlornly in one corner, one tipped over and filled with shredded paper and baby mice.

The next door opened into a hall dotted with security lights and papered with yellowed motivational posters. Beside one someone had written in black marker: “You know what really motivates workers? A fucking job.”

Most of the posters had been defaced. Parting words from the employees. If I had to face rainbow posters exhorting me to have a positive attitude, I’d add my own commentary, too. And I wouldn’t wait until after I was laid off.

Most of the office doors were closed, empty nameplates on each. The last one, though, stood partly open, light seeping into the hall. When I headed toward it, Adam passed me. I grabbed his arm. We faced off, but only for a moment. He wasn’t happy to be here, meaning he was spoiling for a fight. Best not to give him one. I let him go.

He cleared his throat loudly as he approached the door. The sound echoed through the empty hall. He slowed, listening for any sounds of movement. Nothing. He pushed open the door and looked inside. I trailed him.

It was a big wood-paneled office. Clearly executive level, the dented metal desk looking as out of place as the old lunch box and dog-eared magazines scattered across it. The security guard had taken the best office the sawmill had to offer, dragging in abandoned furniture from other offices.

A half-smoked cigarette rested on the edge of an old company mug, the smell of it still permeating the room. The magazines were car ones. None I read. I prefer mine without half-naked women. A partially eaten sandwich lay on an open magazine.