Free Dead Souls by J. Lincoln Fenn

whenever I crossed paths with some holistic New Ager, maybe it’s time to reconsider. Or Scratch could be some kind of bar-trolling illusionist/hypnotist, with lock-picking skills and a misogynist streak. I could also be suffering a psychotic break—it’s possible I saw Sam palm the waist belt in the fishbowl before I crashed and burned during my presentation, and my mind just tucked it into a hallucination.
    Not great hypotheses, but still in the realm of the reality I know. I pull out my cell phone, hoping to see at least a text from Justin, but no, nothing. A small part of my heart shrivels and dies.
    The sensible thing would be to go to the hospital and tell them everything, let them sort out what’s wrong with me. There’s something appealing about the idea of handing it allover to someone else to figure out, letting go. Of course, I just flushed away my only piece of evidence.
    â€œGreat move, Fiona. Brilliant.” I’m talking to myself. That doesn’t seem crazy.
    Then, as if to confirm I am crazy, when I look up from my phone, I find Scratch leaning against the hood of my car in the rain, although I could’ve sworn he wasn’t there just a second ago. He wears the same clothes from the night before—black leather jacket, dark jeans, knockoff watch—and his hands are tucked into his front pockets; so casual, easy, and relaxed, like it’s a sunny, warm day, not a cold downpour. I struggle to make out his face, but again, it’s a mystery.
    My stomach twists. Why can’t I see his face?
    â€œDo you know,” he says lightly, like we’re picking up our conversation from the night before and nothing has happened since, “that Native Hawaiians consider rain a blessing?”
    I call mutiny and say nothing.
    â€œYou should feel very blessed today Fiona. Do you?”
    A sedan passes by, the driver splashing water on a homeless man slumped by a trash can across the street. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t stir. Not much of a witness if something else bad happens.
    I grip my purse a little tighter. “I’d feel a little more blessed if I wasn’t naked when I woke up this morning.”
    â€œOh, that,” he says, and I can feel a smile even if I can’t see it. “What do you take me for? You were hammered. I’m not going to lie and say I wasn’t tempted; you were pathetic yet attractive in a drowned Ophelia kind of way.”
    A compliment or an insult? I’m not sure. “So we didn’t . . .”
    â€œHave sex? No.”
    A small relief—we were at a bar, he made a pass, nothing happened. I’m still a few steps above Justin on the moral high ground.
    â€œSo how did I get back into my apartment?”
    Scratch holds out an arm, beckons me closer. I reluctantly take a few steps but stop right at the edge of the portico’s eave.
    He takes a moment, looking me over. “It suits you.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThere’s no word in your language. It’s a way we identify each other, not through our eyes, but with our souls. Our tribe’s unique mark. And I’ll answer your other question with one of my own—how did it feel being in the fishbowl just now? Did people see you?”
    My throat swells, choking any possible reply.
    No, it can’t be .
    â€œWas it like you were invisible?” he adds softly. “A ghost-twin?”
    How does he know?!
    â€œWas it like the very thing you wished for has come true?” He stands then, takes a step toward me but doesn’t cross the boundary of the portico’s eave. The rain hits his shoulders, cascades down his sleeves, and this close I see his skin too, with the same dark tinge I saw in my own reflection. Something magnetic about it, a strong gravitational pull.
    He lifts his arms slightly, lets the rain hit his palms for a moment. I notice there are no lines on them. “But at what cost?”
    He snaps his