I blink, staying where I am for the moment, just inside the door, ready to run if I have to. "What do you know about the routewitches?"
"Not nearly enough," he says, earnestly. "I was a ghost-chaser for a lot of years, Rosie. I'm not proud of it, but that's what I was, because I was hoping that if I chased long enough, I might catch up to you. I met this redhead little piece of a girl just across the Minnesota line—I suppose 'met' might be too generous a word. I got found by her, and she told me you were a road ghost, and I had to let you be." His smile turns wry before smoothing back into serenity. "She told me you were real. That the night we had was real. That was all I really needed to hear."
"Was her name Emma, by any chance?"
Gary nods, once. "It was. She said you were going as well as could be expected, and that I couldn't help you."
I can almost picture it, Gary, still young, if not as young as he was when we were together, sitting across the table from one of my only real friends in the twilight while Emma sipped over-sweetened coffee and avoided answering as many questions as she could twist herself away from. She did it to protect me. She did it to give Gary his life back. But part of my heart is still aching, and wishing she'd left things alone long enough for him to catch up to me...long enough for him to catch me.
"Oh," I whisper.
"She also told me how to find the routewitches...and that, if I asked them nicely enough, they'd tell me how to send a message to you."
"You mean they'd tell you how to call me back here when it was time for you to die." I can't keep the bitterness out of my voice, and so I don't even try. First Bethany selling herself to the crossroad for the illusion of youth renewed, and now my first and only love, dying old and alone in a room that smells of bleach and ashes and age. No one ever told me life would be easy, but no one ever told me death would be this hard.
"Yes." Gary starts to say something else, and stops as a cough forces itself past his lips. It's deep, bone-shaking, and it drives home what his age couldn't: that I'm here, in this room, tonight, because Gary Daniels is getting ready to die.
I take an involuntary step backward, shoulders passing through the surface of the door behind me. "I can't do this," I say. "I'm sorry, Gary, I'm so sorry, but I can't do this. I just can't."
He coughs one more time before getting his breath back and saying the worst thing he could possibly have said.
"Please."
There's still a moment in which I almost turn and flee the room; a moment when I almost give in to the need to run. The moment passes. "I guess I still owe you for picking me up on prom night," I say, and step forward, moving closer to the bed—moving into the field of his need, penitent begging for the attentions of a psychopomp. One step and my hair brushes my shoulders in heavy lemon-scented curls, sun-dyed the color of drying straw. A second step and the green silk skirt swirls around my ankles, fabric dancing with every move I make.
A third step and I'm standing next to his bed, and mine is the last hand he'll ever have the chance to hold.
Gary smiles, still wheezing slightly as he whispers, "I like your hair better like this, Rosie." He raises one frail hand, moving as if to touch my hair. His hand passes right through me. Gary's eyes widen, and he holds his hand there for a few seconds before letting it fall back to his side. "I should've expected that."
"It's okay." I perch myself on the edge of the bed, putting my hands over his. He can't feel me there, not yet, but even the illusion can be a comfort for some people. "I've missed you."
"Oh, Rosie." He sighs, deep and long as the last breath of winter. "It's been so hard. You can't even begin to know...they all thought I was crazy. For a while, they even thought I killed you. It was so hard..."
I want to be angry with him, I really do; he was alive, at least, and had the chance to change things. I can't quite find the strength. This is Gary. This is the only man who really mourned me. How can I be mad at him for that? "I'm sorry," I say.
"Don't be." He puts his free hand over mine, holding it just above the point where my phantom skin begins. I can feel him surrounding my fingers, and I can't help it; I start to cry. "Don't cry, Rosie. I loved you then, and I love you now, and I need you to do something for me."
"Don't worry, Gary. I know my job. I'll get you to wherever it is you're going, I promise." He's not dying on the road; he can't stay with me. He'll have to move on, and break my heart all over again.
"I don't mean that." His expression is grave. "I need you to go to Dearborn, to Carl's Garage. He knows you're coming. He's waiting for you. Just tell him I've passed, and he'll know what to do from there. Can you do that for me?"