“Fine.” She answers in that clipped, short-tempered tone she’s been using with me for the last two months. “I’ll pick you up after three.”

I get out of the car, close the door, and she drives off.

Then it’s just me, the school, and the dead girl.

Well, crap.

A sign to the left of the sidewalk identifies this building as Emerson Hall. I turn in a circle. Now that I’m outside the car, I feel like I’ve been transported to another dimension. All traces of the outside world—the street we drove up and the black fence and gate—are lost amid acres of land and trees. Even the wind is different here—quieter, like it’s trapped under a glass dome, exiling street noise.

I drag my gaze back to the dead girl hanging at the center of the building like some sacrificial god. Even now, this spirit is draining my energy, making me dizzy, and the longer she hangs there, the worse it’ll get. If I want to get through this day—and every one after that—I’m going to have to ignore her.

Easier said than done.

I give Poppa’s coin one last squeeze, slip it under my shirt, and march into Emerson Hall, avoiding the girl swinging over my head. Right now, I have to find my new normal, and part of that is pretending I am normal.

Inside, several students stand in line at a counter, waiting to speak to one of three women behind a glass panel. I hang back at the entrance for a moment, surveying my surroundings, mostly waiting to see if there’s an energy suck—an indication that there are dead nearby. When I’m sure everyone in the lobby is alive, I choose a line and wait. A couple of students turn to stare, but I avert my eyes, looking at anything else—the plastic plant in the corner, wooden chairs pushed against a dirty white wall, black-and-white photos of buildings and long-dead people.

A television behind the glass runs breaking news, the screen splashed with photos of a deadly plane crash, deliberately taken down by its copilot. Officials make guesses as to the motive, and the only thing I can think is that there are now one hundred and fifty more people bound here on earth, dead. My stomach clenches tight. Mom doesn’t like when I watch the news. She thinks I take it all too personally.

What she really means is she thinks I become obsessed, and I guess she’s kind of right. There are certain stories I invest in, and I’ll follow every piece of news released on the subject.

This one is no different.