Free Ghost Boy by Iain Lawrence

Samuel had told him to do. He was the Ghost again, Harold the Ghost, small and invisible. He chanted to himself, under his breath, the words that he used for a charm, his little incantation:
    â€œNo one can see me, no one can hurt me. The words that they say cannot harm me.”
    They didn’t stop at a restaurant. They passed through the city and traveled on. Bugs came soaring up and splattered on the windshield, and the engine droned beneath the hood.
    Harold fell asleep, his head against the window, and the trucks went roaring through the night, chasing cones of yellow down the road. Small and white, the Ghost went flying across the prairie, dreaming his old dream of being a dark-haired boy.

Chapter
    14
    H arold’s head swayed sideways and banged against the window. He came awake to find the truck lurching off the road, to hear the sound of gravel popping underneath the wheels. He saw a building with red and yellow lights, a bank of gas pumps waiting there like a row of little fat men, each with one skinny arm and one hand in a pocket.
    The motor was oddly quiet, the voices in the cab little more than whispers.
    â€œIt’s not quite empty,” said Samuel. “A couple of people inside.”
    â€œIt’ll do,” said Tina. “We’ve got to stop somewhere.”
    Harold yawned and stretched. “Where are we?” he asked.
    Tina patted his arm. “We’re just getting some gas. Something to eat.”
    A sign blinked redly at him: Gas. Food. Worms. It sizzled in the summer night.
    Samuel parked beside the pumps. The Gypsy Magda drew up beside them, and the light glared off her windows so that it seemed the cab was empty.
    They climbed down, Harold and Tina from one side, Samuel from the other. The Gypsy Magda, with her shimmering of bracelets, came around her truck, and they stood together in a little group below the crackle of the lights.
    A bell jangled as the door opened in the building. A man came out, dressed in blue, walking quickly in leather boots with the laces loose. His head down, he wiped at his hands with an oily rag. “What do you want?” he asked.
    â€œGas,” said Samuel. “Please.”
    The man lifted his head. “Jesus!” he said. He looked at Harold, at the Gypsy Magda, down at Tina and up at Samuel. He took a step backward. “Oh, Jesus,” he said again.
    â€œHave you got a bathroom in there?” asked Tina.
    His mouth was open, his eyes as round as Harold’s glasses. “Huh?” he said. “You’re going to go in?”
    â€œWe’d like something to eat,” said Samuel. “If it isn’t any trouble.”
    â€œNo,” said the man. “No problem.” He dabbed at his face with the rag. “But my wife’s in there. And she’s …”
    â€œWhat?” asked Samuel.
    The man fumbled with the rag. “Sort of scared. You know?”
    â€œYes,” said Samuel. “Can you fill up both the trucks?”
    â€œSure. No problem.” The man’s face shone with sweat. “You’re, uh—you’re going to pay for it, aren’t you?” he asked.
    Samuel smiled with his horrid teeth, his little eyes gleaming. “Sure. No problem.”
    The man’s hands shook so badly that gasoline sprayed across his boots. Harold laughed, until Samuel’s hand clamped with its claws on his shoulder.
    â€œDon’t stare,” Samuel told him gently. “It’s not polite to stare.” He put his hand on Harold’s back and turned him toward the building.
    It looked warm and safe in there, all the colors bright as fire. Through the windows Harold saw a rosy shine of padded chairs, the red of Coke machines, a fountain fizzing Orange Crush.
    There were three booths at the window, and behind them a counter where a young girl sat on a stool of chrome and orange. She was six, or maybe seven, and she twirled a finger through her hair as she worked