And as he improved, they talked more and more - two people who desperately needed to. Often they'd hit a rhythm, a bandying back and forth, as if their thoughts were interlocking pieces. She'd told him, "When we talk, I like how our words ebb and flow. There doesn't seem to be a need to remark on each comment, no need to clarify - it's as if we both understand that we understand each other. It's like dancing."
"Or sex?" She'd smiled. "Only if it's great." He'd given her a confident nod. "Then we would have great sex." Lord, we would... . They seemed to fit in every way. Yes, he was half-mad, but as a Prohibition-era ghost with a penchant for stealing condoms, moon pies, and bras, she wasn't exactly in touch with reality herself. Conrad could see her; her presence seemed to be the only thing that calmed his mind. He was healing, and she was happier than she'd been in eighty years. Two broken souls together in this broken place had found a kind of contentment. Maybe his being here wasn't the accident she'd thought it. She couldn't believe this was all random. Maybe he was supposed to save her from this cursed afterlife? And maybe she hadn't learned her lessons from Marguerite L'Are. If anyone was going to save N