It was two in the morning and still clammy and hot. Staring at the blank TV screen, his mind wandered to the evening’s conversation; to pipe smoking children and a persistent thrumming, a vibration he couldn’t quite locate.
A girl with Karen’s eyes loomed up out of the shadows and said: I’m cold, I’m scared, I’m dead.
He jerked awake, sweating. Two thirty five.
The dead, he thought he heard someone say, are never entirely dead.