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aw moonlight shimmering on black waters； so he raised his voice in the first song that came to mind： 〃Silver southern moon 。 。 。 for ten years I thought I was born of you 。。。。 Silver moon； I'll be back someday 。。。。 〃
〃That's not the way it goes。 I should know； I wrote it。〃 Ghost's voice was fading。 〃Oh； silver southern moon 。 。 。 tell me your sweet lies； then let me。 drown deep in your eyes 。。。。
〃Somedaaay；〃 Steve joined in。 He and the whiskey sang Ghost to sleep； the whiskey with its somnolent amber song； Steve with a voice that cracked when he tried to hit the high notes。 Behind them the river passed in silence； the lowest…hanging branches brushed the water； and the leaves rotted on the bough。 The moon spread like butter on the black river； and Ghost's eyes closed； with his head pillowed on the hump between the seats； he began to dream。
They bypassed Roxboro； but Steve saw the power plant on Lake Hyco； lit up all glowing green and white like a weird birthday cake； its million pipes and wires and glass insulators and metal gewgaws reflected in the lake。 On the way back； if Ghost was awake； they'd drive up there to a hill Steve knew and look out over the pastures and the lake and all the glittering Milky Way。 An hour or so after passing out Ghost was usually raring to go again。 His dreams gave him new strength。 Or made him laugh or cry； or sometimes scared the shit out of him。
Steve put his hand on Ghost's head； smoothed back wisps of hair from flickering closed eyes。 He wondered what was unfolding beneath his hand； beneath the thin bone； inside the orb of ivory that cradled Ghost's weird brain。 Who was born and murdered and resurrected inside that skull？ What walked behind Ghost's eyelids； what lithe secret phantoms tapped Ghost's shoulder and made him whimper deep in his throat？
Ghost often dreamed of things that were going to happen； or of things that had already happened that he couldn't possibly know about。 These premonitions could e when he was awake too； but the ones that came to him in dreams seemed to be the most potent。 More often than not they were also the most cryptic。 He had known when his grandmother was going to die； but then so had she。 Though surely painful； the knowledge had given them the time they needed to say goodbye。
Goodbye for a while； anyway。 Ghost had inherited his grandmother's house in Missing Mile； where he and Steve lived now。 Steve had spent plenty of time in that house as a kid； watching Miz Deliverance mix herbs or cut out cookies with her heart…shaped cutters； building forts in the backyard； sleeping over in Ghost's room。 Even now； five years after her death； Steve sometimes thought he felt the familiar presence of Miz Deliverance in a room； or just around a corner。 He imagined this was something Ghost took for granted。
Suddenly unnerved by the prospect of touching Ghost's dreams； Steve put his hand back on the wheel。
They drove past a graveyard full of softly rotting monuments and flowers； an abandoned railyard； a barbecue shack whose sign advertised GRAND OPENING EVERY FRI AND SAT NITE。 A rabbit darted across the road。 Steve braked； and Ghost's head rolled back and forth on his thin neck so fragile； so fragile。 These days Steve was paranoid about something happening to Ghost。 Ghost was spacy； sure； but he could take care of himself。 Still； Steve couldn't help watching out for him； especially now that Ghost was the only person he felt like spending time with。
They had other friends； sure； but those guys mostly wanted to go out drinking and smoke weed and talk about Wolfpack football at the state university over in Raleigh。 All of which was okay； even though the Wolfpack was always pretty shitty； but Ghost was different。 Ghost didn't give a flying fuck about football； Ghost could drink everybody else under the table and not get a damn bit weirder； and Ghost understood all the shit that had gone down over the past few months。 The shit with Ann。 Ghost never asked Steve why he didn't forget about Ann and get himself a new girlfriend； Ghost understood why Steve didn't want to see Ann or any other girl； not for months and months； maybe not ever。
Not until he could trust himself； anyway。 Right now he did not deserve the pany of women。 However lonely or horny he got； he had it ing to him for what he had done to Ann。
He played with strands of Ghost's hair as he drove； winding them around his fingers； marvelling at their fineness； their silvery…gold luster。 Just to feel the difference； he ran his hand through his own coarse hair； hair the color of a crow's wing； hair that stood up in wild loops and cowlicks。 His hair was dirty； and he noticed that Ghost's was too。 Steve hadn't been taking care of himself…he'd gone days without a shower and over a month without washing his clothes； he'd been late for his job at the record store three times last week； he was putting away a twelve…pack of Bud every day or two …but he hoped it wasn't rubbing off on Ghost。 There was such a thing as being too damn sympathetic。 Steve's hand felt greasy。 He wiped it on his T…shirt。
They were here。 Steve had no idea where； but he saw what he wanted： the faded light of an ancient Pepsi machine sitting outside a fishin'…and…huntin' store； casting dim red and blue shadows in the dirt of the parking lot。 Steve swung the T…bird in and killed the ignition。 Ghost's head had slipped onto Steve's knee； and he eased out from under it。 There was a little dark spot on the knee of Steve's jeans。 Ghost's spit； Ghost's drunken sleeping spit。 Steve rubbed it into the cloth； then absently put his finger in his mouth。 A faint taste of whiskey and molasses 。 。 。 and what was lie doing sucking someone else's spit off his finger？ Didn't matter。 Ghost was lost deep in dreams。 Time to go to work。
Steve fished in the backseat。 Cassette cases…so that was where Ann's damn Cocteau Twins tape had ended up。 Steve had always hated it anyway； the girl's feathery voice that was supposed to be so angelic and the ethereal…seasick wall of sound； Empty food bags and a veritable sea of beer cans。 Finally he dug out his special tool； a length of coat hanger bent into a hook at one end。 He wondered if he ought to pull the T…bird up so it was hiding the front of the Pepsi machine。 No； he decided； anybody out driving this time of night is probably on business just as shady as mine。
With a last glance at Ghost； Steve knelt； fed the wire into the coin…return slot of the machine； and wiggled it around until he felt it catch。 He tugged gently and seconds later was blessed by a shower of silver。 Steve scooped the quarters； dimes； and nickels out of the dirt； shoved them into his pockets； hustled back to the car； and got the hell out of the parking lot。
Twenty fast miles later； Steve had the radio on a rock station and Ghost was trying to decide whether to rejoin the living。 〃Are we still in North Carolina？〃
〃Yeah。〃 Steve turned Led Zeppelin down and waited for the stories。 Ghost always told Steve his dreams； and they were sometimes coherent； sometimes nonsensical and lovely； and almost invariably a little frightening。 Ghost sat up and stretched； working out his sleep cramps。 Steve saw a flash of belly where Ghost's sweatshirt parted from his tie…dyed pants。 Pale skin； golden hair sparse and curly。 Ghost looked out the window for several miles； his brow furrowed； his eyes puzzled。 That meant he was remembering。 Steve waited； and Ghost began； haltingly； to speak。
〃When they were young 。 。 。 they were the world's darlings。 The world's opinion meant everything to them； even though they tried to pretend it meant nothing。 Their town was even grayer and muddier when they pranced along the streets after midnight； and the rooftops bent to kiss their dyed hair。 They wandered through the shops putting their delicate fingerprints on the window glass and china； touching anything colorful or sweet； pinching things between thumb and forefinger as if to grasp the town in both hands would dirty them。 Sully them。〃 Ghost rolled 〃sully〃 over his tongue as if it were scuppernong wine； in his thick Carolina voice the word took on a dark； rich flavor。 〃Sully them。 The big boys。 at their school shouted things at them； black dirty things that stank of toilet…wall scrawls and smeared basins。 But those boys never fought them because they knew the twins were magic。 Everyone knew the twins would go away to the city someday； where they could pick rhinestones out of the cigarette sludge in the gutter； and the moon would be as aching and vivid as neon cheese in blue velvet sky。 And they did。 They went to New Orleans。〃
Ghost stopped； looked away down the train track they were crossing。 Tiny colored lights shone far down the line； fairy lights； Christmas lights； though it was only the middle of September。
Steve closed his eyes； remembered the road； opened them again。 〃Go on；〃 he said。 〃What happened to them in the city？〃
〃Artists put them in films。 They were twins； and the hip crowd loved the perversity of that。 Their mirror…image pornography was art。 They were Donatello Davids； skinny and beautiful； not heavyset like Michelangelo's。 Androgynous striplings who outlined each other's bones in lipstick。 And they were all