Free Be the Death of Me by Rebecca Harris Page B

whatever has caused Ford such immediate fear. With a look of apprehension, he beckons me with a crook of his finger.
    I’m at his side in a flash. Ford holds a photo of himself, black and white, his expression vague though smiling, obviously taken from the yearbook and blown to a larger size. But something is missing. His eyes, specifically. They’ve been gouged out, poked through by something sharp, leaving the sockets torn and empty. A single line of color, scarlet red against the gray, decorates his throat, drawn over his neck like a gruesome smile. There is no mistaking the rage that guided the hand and tore through his face, and only one explanation behind it.
    I sigh and place a hand on his shoulder.

Tucker
    The choices we make define us. The most insignificant of decisions, the ones we make on a daily basis without a second’s thought label not only who we are, but who we once were. Thousands of decisions, millions; work or play, fight or flight, love or lust, Jesus or Judas, we choose, and must either suffer or rejoice in the outcomes.
    Yet who in a million years, would imagine that a single choice could haunt us forever, even when we’re forced to haunt those left behind?
    “Stop staring at me.” Billie doesn’t bother opening her eyes to scold me.
    “Sorry,” I mumble into the tops of my knees. I lean my head back against the wall where I sit and content myself with staring at the ceiling. I chuckle. Even at her worst, Billie is never boring. I’ve smiled more during these few days as a Guardian than I did in four years working in my previous station.
    Another day has passed and night has once again left us alone with our thoughts. I watch as Billie strolls silently to the window, placing thin, delicate fingers against the frost–coated glass. She lifts her face and closes her eyes to the moonlight streaming in through silver wisps of clouds. Its colorless glow unites with her own shimmer to transform her pale skin into the softest shade of blue.
    Why do I insist on continually tormenting myself? What sort of man puts himself through torture, knowing full well that the product of his trouble will only result in more pain? I’m in need of serious psychological help. Aren’t there therapists in our world? Spirits trained to deal with the ramblings of the insane and deceased? I can’t be the only dead man with issues.
    I make a mental note to look into it.
    Ford breathes deeply into his pillow, his scrawny form hidden somewhere within the myriad of blankets and bedspread. There’s a single break of thunderous snores before he rolls over in his sleep, and the night is once again plunged into clamor.
    “Look at this,” Billie’s quiet voice breaks through my reverie. She beckons me with a wave of her hand.
    I spring to her side. Standing behind her, I’m tall enough to see directly over her head. I debate for a moment whether or not to rest my chin on top of her hair, but decide against it in the end.
    “It’s snowing,” she whispers, pressing her hand against the pane.
    Tiny flecks of clean, white snow fall from a dark sky, coating the ground in a thick, downy frosting. The flakes that don’t stick are buffeted through the night, floating past on the crest of a lazy wind.
    “Do you remember snow?” she asks, without turning.
    I smile at the unexpected question. “Why wouldn’t I?”
    She shrugs, drawing her shoulders to her ears. “I don’t know. Sometimes it feels like I can’t . . . remember it the way I used to, you know? The cold. How the snow used to stick to my fingers before melting.”
    I nod, feeling my heart ache with a shadow of sympathy.
    “Whenever we had a snow day,” she goes on without being prompted, “my sister and I would go sledding behind our house. There was this giant hill in the backyard, and at least once a year mom would catch Olivia and me trying to sneak our living room coffee table outside. I was so convinced it was faster than the cheap, plastic sleds