Dust to Dust Read Online Free Page B

at the porch railing, I look out over the lawn. It’s vibrating with buzzing bees in the clover and ladybugs crawling on the wild strawberry leaves. There’s so much life all around me, and I want to grab it and hold it in my hands, feeling its movement, its pulse, its energy.
    Your reverence for life is so beautiful.
    I hear the voice. It’s not my own, but it’s clear as crystal. It’s his.
    I spin around toward the house. No one’s there.
    â€œWho said that?” I whisper.
    No response. But he is here. It’s not a knowing, or even a feeling. It’s more . . . an impression. That’s the word. His soul is impressed into my space, and I can tell it’s near. Is it the trace of the last pill I took making me feel this way, or is it . . .
    â€œThatcher, if you’re real, you have to show me,” I whisper into the air. Maybe when I get further from my last pill, in a few hours, this will be over, these imaginings will be gone, and I’ll be back to normal. And that’s what I want, right? To be done with this dreamworld that makes me feel split in two?
    Nick will have the old Callie back, someone who’s undistracted and uncomplicated—and fully in love with him. Dad will know my good sense has returned. I’m not a wacko who thinks there’s a ghost boy out there trying to reach me. I’ll stop whispering to myself, stop smelling sheets and being frightened by radio static and talking to birds.
    But just in case . . . just in case he’s real, I want to give him a chance to reveal himself.
    I wait for a moment, but all I hear is the soft hum of the hot summer day.
    And I’m grateful and disappointed all at once.
    I read for a little while, but eventually I head upstairs with a plan to stream the newest episodes of my favorite show. From the den, Dad calls, “Get some more rest, Callie. If you expect to go off the pills soon, you need to save your energy.”
    I pause for a moment in my open door, and then I click it shut and lean against it, frozen.
    Save your energy . I’ve heard that before. From him .
    A chill works its way up my spine, and although I don’t feel pain, I do feel something. The hairs on my arm prick up, and I have that sense again of being . . . not alone. I cast a glance around the four corners of my room. Not an item out of place, not a shadow that moves. And still . . . something, or someone, is here.
    Bzzzt .
    My phone lights up with a text from a number I don’t recognize.
    Callie, call me.
    My breath quickens as I wonder if it’s possible; if he were able to contact me this way . . . would he?
    My fingers are hitting Call before my brain catches up to them, and it’s ringing, ringing . . . click .
    â€œThatcher?”
    â€œUm, no.” A man clears his throat. “Callie, this is Pete Green from the Post and Courier . Your friend Carson said that you might be open to talking about—”
    â€œI’m sorry, Mr. Green,” I say, cutting him off. “But I’ve already told someone at your paper that I’m not interested in doing a story.”
    â€œBut if we could just—” he tries again.
    â€œI’m afraid I can’t talk,” I tell him. “Please don’t contact me again. Good-bye.”
    I end the call abruptly and throw the phone down on my bed. Carson!
    I head to the bathroom. I’m so angry with my best friend that I could scream. How can she think I’m ready to talk to the media about any of this? I can’t even get my own head straight.
    And there’s another reason that I was so rude to the reporter on the phone. I thought the text might have been from Thatcher, and I’m shaking with anxiety.
    I turn on the hot water, deciding that a shower will clear my head. As the room fills with steam, I look into the mirror. My eyes are watery and threatening to spill over with tears. The mirror