Most novels don’t start with the main character dying. Come to think of it, usually the protagonist never dies. Well, this is different.

   My name is Kay Rookwood, and today I die.

   As days go, this day was nothing different to any other I’d experienced. There’s no storm clouds, no omens, nothing to warn me, even in the most obtuse way, of my imminent demise. 7am, woke up. Shower, breakfast, pack my schoolbag, clean my teeth and dry my hair – normal boring steps in the human routine. Say goodbye to mum and dad, head out the door. I’m a little late for the school bus, so I hurry along without thinking much, except to wonder if the bus will be early. No, it isn’t. I wait for 15 minutes – the bus driver doesn’t have a punctual neuron in his brain, and loves to sometimes come early, sometimes come 20 minutes late. I swing into a seat and plug in my iPod, newly replaced for the third time (I’m clumsy). Bruno Mars’ “Moonshine” floods my ears and I settle back, happier than the beginning of the day.

   Little do I know that at the end of this bus trip, I won’t be leaving the bus.

   I guess I should give you some idea of who I am. Kay Rookwood, real name Kaili but no-one has called me that in years, seventeen years old. I live in Melbourne as do a lot of people, sadly, since nothing happens, all of us forgotten on the world stage. I’m two weeks away from finishing Year 11 forever – exams and Year 12 orientation are my last hurdles – and then it’s two months of summer and freedom before the ever-looming prison of Year 12 encloses us and we become diligent high school students for three terms. I come alive in summer, it’s natural. The sun, the beach, swimming, lazing around the house with a book and ice-cream: that is my true home. Not school. I’m academically-driven until term 4 rolls around, and then I shut off, bored. School loses its meaning, its significance. I’d rather be happy than successful any day. In fact, I believe happy is successful, and my dream is that someday, I’ll actually live by that philosophy.

   From the moon I’m taken to the end of the world, as Guy Sebastian’s “Armageddon” takes over. It reminds me of Dean, my six-month boyfriend, when he karaoked this one night, very late, in an empty house when we ran wild. Thoughts of Dean always made me feel sad, a momentary pang of longing which I swiftly stifled. I never saw him enough; having finished Year 12 and working full-time at the Lonely Planet office, we only barely found enough coinciding free time to be together. Rarely I stayed the night at his house, those hours of lazy blissful never-ending happiness that always ended too soon.

   The bus slows at a red light with a sharp application of the brakes. The sudden momentum shakes me from my daydreams and I sigh internally. Six months and still, I can’t get enough of him.

   We reach the school gates much too soon for my liking, always a reveller in delaying the inevitable. Laboriously the bus arcs a roundabout, barely missing a daredevil road sign placed almost on the gutter.

   Nothing prepares us for what happens next.

  The screech of speeding tyres reaches us from the right, some turn to look. I am one of them, wondering why someone would be so determined to beat a bus around a roundabout; the car is black and shines in the early sunlight. Too slowly I realise he is not about to slow down, the driver reckless to all dangers, swiftly closing the gap between himself and the front of the bus, as though determined to hit us. Students start yelling and I know he will hit us, there’s no stopping the car, no stopping the swinging momentum of the bus; both vehicles unable to stop meeting each other. I gasp, rise from the seat. Then my world turns to chaos as metal punches metal, I’m flung right across to the opposite window. Screaming metal, screeching in pain, the bus flips over on its side. Bodies fall everywhere, some on top of me. I can’t make sense of anything, all is a blur of rolling and tumbling and trying to cling on; my arm is twisted painfully behind me, all I’m aware is the pain, the blood across my face, my terrified heart and pounding head. The weight of someone on top of me is too much and I whimper.

   Suddenly, there’s a deafening bang and the bus stops abruptly. I realise dimly it has hit the fence of the school; leaning almost on its side the bus has nowhere else has to run. I don’t know and don’t care where the car is, all I want is to get away. But I can’t. The student isn’t moving and I’m starting to panic.

   Voices are calling across the bus, footsteps are heard as they navigate an unsure world; they climb over seats and use bars for support. Voices from outside, too; crying and shrieking and calling out calmly.

   “The driver’s dead,” someone says, and it should shock me. Death so close. But it doesn’t. Emotion seems to be somewhere else, at the moment. All I can think about is escaping, this one goal I’m fixated on. Other voices start, pained ones, those that weren’t lucky enough to avoid injury. They rise in pitch until people start realising some voices will never be heard; death surrounds us in our confined world. Then a terrifying, malignant noise is heard: twisting metal , groaning. The bus hasn’t finished with us. Not everything is stable. I look above me and a scream threatens to burst. Through the tangle of arms I see the chairs above me, I see a body, unmoving, a mere body. Whoever it is, they spell my death. I can’t move and the body is slipping, about to fall, to crush the already unbearable weight on me.

   The body falls, I scream.

   All is black.

   Something is pulling me, tugging at me. I want to follow, I know I should, I belong wherever that thing wants to take me. But I can’t. I’m rooted. I don’t know if it’s me or someone else, but I’m held back, resisting the irresistible without even trying.

   I feel as though I’m floating in inky blackness, neither mind nor being, a spirit lost in an endless unconscious sea, bobbing with the waves that wash through me. I can’t focus on anything in particular. I can’t remember anything. Who am I?

   Then a voice.

   “Open your eyes.”

   No. Leave me alone. I want to be alone.

   “Don’t resist. It makes this so much harder.”

   I will resist! I don’t want you! Go away…

   “Open your eyes, Kay. You can’t stay here.”

   I know this is true; already the irresistible urge is digging into me, more adamant. But instead of following its embrace, I turn the other way, and follow another force. Completely blind, I take its hand meekly. A warm, strong hand. This is the hand to follow. I leave the other behind.

   I open my eyes.

   Hospital rooms attempt to appear welcoming but nothing can hide the machinery, the dependency on machines, the sterile sameness of every room. The same stricken faces, bending over unconscious prone bodies, the same despair or grief or shattered hope reaching into every room.

   This is what I see when I choose to see. Except to me it’s so different, nothing is the same. My family is now the one clustered around a body. My body. My broken, battered, unconscious body. And here I am, standing beside them, looking down at myself too.

   “Wha-?” I stumble backwards, and continue stumbling through a table of equipment and a vase of flowers, which make as much reaction as my family: nothing. I panic and run towards them, but they make no move to look at me, no recognition flashes on a face. “Mum?” I step hesitantly toward my mother, pass my hand in front of her tear-streaked face. She blinks, but nothing more. Now fearing the worst, my brain scrambling for best explanation and coming up empty, I touch her shoulder. Except my hand travels right through her clothes and flesh and bone. I shriek and pull back instinctively. “This isn’t- I can’t- no I don’t understand…” Backing away, I feel the need to run clawing its way up my throat. I open my mouth, ready to scream, ready to run, to run and run… then a hand brushes my arm, and I freeze.

   “Kay,” the voice says, a voice I remember from the darkness. A voice I know, and trust. “Kay.” My name, a soft caress in his voice. I immediately feel myself calming, my breathing slowing. I look up, but no-one is there. Yet I still feel the pressure of fingers around my arm, gentle as a butterfly.

   “Where are you?” I whisper, searching the air, vainly trying to see something, anything, a shape or form, a shiver in the air.

   “You can’t see me,” the voice says, sadness in every word. “Not yet. You are new, untrained, and you must take things slowly.”

   “Who are you?” My voice is slowly returning to normal. Concentrating on this presence helps me to forget reality, what I know in the back of my mind. What I can’t know.

   “You can call me Des, and I am your help. That’s all you can know at the moment. I’m sorry, but you must start at the beginning. I can’t skip over bits because it’s you. I would if I could.” The frustration I had begun to feel melts away. The regret is powerful in his voice. I hardly think about the strangeness in his words. “I guess you’ve seen your family? Yourself?”

   I nod mutely, barely able to look over at the huddle.

   “Kay, this is going to be hard. But I know you can take it, I know you’ll be fine. That’s why I chose you. That’s why you’re here.” He sighs. “Here goes, I guess. Kay, you’re not dead. But you’re close. You are very, very close to death.”

   I keep my eyes focused on where I think he is, where the voice originates. Keep my mind carefully blank. A big, white, empty space, mirroring my surroundings.

   “I won’t go into details, but simply put you are hovering on the edge of death. You’re parents have been told and, well, they’re waiting.” He pauses, waits for me to catch on. It only takes me a moment.

   “They’re waiting for me to die,” I say quietly, unemotionally.

   An imperceptible pause, and then, “Yes.”

   “So why am I here?”

   “That question brings you to the core of my meeting with you. You have a job to do, Kay, that only you can accomplish. Until then, you will remain immaterial, a ghost essentially. I will guide you and help you, but for the majority of your time you will be on your own. Never deserted, but the choices you make will be your choices, no-one else’s. Until you finish the task we will keep you alive. That is a promise.”

   “So…” My mind swiftly put his words together. “I’m not going to die at all? I’m going to live?”

   “Yes.” There is admiration in his voice with one single word. “You’re quick.”

   I look at my family, at their grief-stricken faces. My dad stands behind my mother, a solid silent pillar, as she grips my hand, eyes searching my face for signs of life. My older sister is slumped in an armchair, staring at nothing. We are close, the two of us. It hurts to see her drained of life, of the energy and positive spirit she is admired for. Then I turn away. “What must I do?” I ask, and I feel him smile, a subtle shift in the air that my mind interprets as gladness and relief.

   “You must learn,” he says, warmth softening every word. “Ghosts are special creatures, existing in both the spiritual and physical worlds, and this gives them unique abilities. Once you learn to harness and control them, you will be ready to begin. That is when I will leave you, when your choices become your responsibility alone. Until then, I will train you. The world is large and it is up to you to navigate it successfully.” He pauses, before adding softly, “Thank-you, Kay. I knew you wouldn’t disappoint me. I’m so happy that I wasn’t wrong.”

   “Who are you?” I ask, feeling that the answer is much larger than I could ever expect. I desperately want to know; curiosity is an inherent gene in my family. You aren’t a Rookwood without being curious about everything. Only the respect and self-control we’re taught by our parents keeps us from prying into everybody’s business.

   “I can’t tell you,” is his reply, and I feel it in the air, his regret, his desire to tell me, tell me everything. “I wish I could. I wish you could see me and know me. But circumstances dictate that we must stay unknown to each other-”

   “I’m not unknown to you.” My voice is low but the challenge is clear.

   “No.” He sighs. “I know almost everything about you. Except your character. I don’t know how you will respond in any number of situations. I can guess intelligently, but I don’t know.”

   “I just want to know,” I say slowly. “I want know that I can trust you. You, whoever you represent, have pulled me out of my body, a body which is now perilously close to death. My family is mourning me. I see it; they have begun to say goodbye even when hope clings on. I’ve been pulled out and made spirit just so I can fulfil some sort of quest for you, which I’m sure is very important, but no thought to my consent was given. I have no choice, I can’t exactly jump back into myself. So tell me,” I look up, right where I believe his eyes to be. Green eyes, I think. Are they green? “Tell me I can trust you.”

   Soft, butterfly-light warmth radiates from my left shoulder. Fingers, a hand, strong and confident. I feel his other under my chin, tilting it up. Now I’m looking at him, straight through him. I shiver at his touch. “You can trust me with your life, Kay Rookwood. That is a choice.”

   I nod, another shiver tingling my body ever so slightly. His hand presses on my shoulder for a second more, and then he lets go. I hadn’t realised I had been holding my breath, but I release it now, ever so slightly unnerved. He feels so safe, but how can someone feel safe?

   “Time to go,” he says. I take one last look at my family – mother, father, sister. Silently say goodbye. Something tells me I may not be returning, or if I do, I won’t be the same. Then I turn away, and I feel his hand in mine. Next moment, unseen light surrounds us and we’re gone.

   Dean Shirley, boyfriend of one and a quarter years. The night we started going steady is burned into my mind forever.

   Little things can mean so much. Our footsteps in the same rhythm, his jumper coming to my knees, the cold bite of the wind. These things define a night, shape its character, its very nature. I hope I never forget them.

   We had shared an afternoon-slash-evening in the city, bright lights and city sights, a movie, popcorn, hot chocolate at Max Brenner. Laughter and chatter, clicking together like cogs in a contraption. On the train home I dared to lean my head against his shoulder, a leap of faith for me, a small step for him. Nothing was said, neither confirmation nor denial. Still we were ‘friends’.

   The dark enveloped us once we left the light-flooded station. On an impulse we deserted the bus and walked, side-by-side yet not hand-in-hand, because I was much too unsure to ask. We crossed the bridge spanning the freeway - the blurred flashes of cars and their headlights roaring beneath us, constant movement, always more, and I stopped for a moment. He continued on, my world of little spectacular things unseen, and we talked. Always our talk was forgettable, inconsequential, falling to the forgotten five minutes after saying it. Yet it was enjoyable, light, carefree. The night was cold and I yearned for his hand in mine, and our chatter carried across the biting air.

   Too soon we reached the shopping centre, and with a tight pang in my chest I knew my chance was over, I hadn't broached the unknowably-far gap of a relationship, this night would be the same as all others. He would disappear to work, I would catch a bus home. Opposite directions. A piece of my heart left behind, the yearning again unsatisfied, the horrible hollow feeling of Not Knowing. We walked side-by-side and I thought my unhappy thoughts, while he matched his pace to mine and didn't think a single thing.

   The gaudy brightness of the restaurant where he worked was passing on our right sooner than I could bear. I didn't want another empty hug, one more tantalising glimpse into his heart, one moment to read his body and hope. Because then we pulled away and we were still friends. Because I couldn’t find the courage to ask. Because I was helplessly uncertain, hungering with a persistent longing. I wanted to call him boyfriend, I wanted to hold him, I wanted to feel his warmth for me in his arms. How long must I wait? We were walking towards the doors, in five minutes I would be alone again; please, must I wait another day, another date, a week to ache?

   He talked, and I won't forget his words.

   "It doesn't look too busy. I think they can survive without me for another five minutes."

   We were walking away, the restaurant was behind us. I couldn’t believe it. The thought never entered my head that something was going on here out of the ordinary; this was simply my unexpected friend acting unexpected once more.

   We went into Coles and he bought a Time Out for each of us. I was hoping this unforeseen extra time with him would lead to good things, but I hardly dared think it. Too improbable. Companionably we sauntered back across the car park, and again the wearying doubts reared themselves: just another night like no other. This time he's leaving me for sure.

   He must have had it planned, maybe on the train home, or even before the date ever began. Now he surprised me again, pulling me around the side of the restaurant, into a shadowy dark corner away from prying eyes and cameras. I stared at him in surprise, but he merely smiled at me, that infuriating I-know-what's-going-on-and-I'm-loving-your-confusion smile, and I asked indignantly, "Is there any point to this exactly?"

   He shook his head dismissively, adding, "We can wait a few more minutes."

   I shrugged in perplexity but accepted it, choosing the easy course of going along, curious to see the end. I peeked around the side, noticing that Michelle had come outside for a smoke break. Returning to our dark world, I looked up at him. I was getting tired of this game he's playing, and I gave him an inquiring look. He grinned again - his smile is strangely appealing for one so ordinary - and I read this one as well. It was saying "I know you've wanted this and I'm finally asking". And he said, "While we're here, I might as well ask. Do you want to go out with me?"

   Two things happened for me at almost the same time. The world rocked on its heels for a bare millisecond, just long enough for the bottom to fall out of everything - including my stomach, which gave a hard little twist on itself. And I looked up at him, grinned, and wordlessly nodded, face alight, alive. He laughed and suddenly the whole entire night had been worth it, every single moment, the good and the bad. Insecurities, uncertainties, they disappeared, forgotten forever. Happiness overrides everything.

   Hand-in-hand, we walked inside. He disappeared to get changed, but now there was something tangible linking us, a definite connection, and I knew he'd come back to say goodbye...

   One moment we’re in the hospital with my comatose self, and the next, grey marble surrounds me and we’re in a long, bright hall, light streaming in from wide windows set high in the walls. Silence feels like a physical presence here, gently pushed aside by murmuring voices, a faint din of laughter and chatter from far away. It reminds me of an old library playing neighbours with a school.

   “This is our training and research facility,” my guide tells me. I start, having momentarily forgotten his presence, even though he still holds my hand. Said hand is dropped, as he continues. “We call it the Aptigation Foundation, a combination of ‘aptitude’ and ‘investigation’ which some brainiac or clever young thing thought up years ago. Basically, if you’re new to this state of being or need information on anything of any consequence, then you come here.”

   “Where are we, exactly?”

   “The physical building exists in London, however because we exist in two worlds, we are able to use the spiritual plane to extend the capacity, so that any number of spirits can be within its walls at any one time. You’ll just keep finding new rooms, new halls, like a never-ending maze.” I shake my head in disbelief, overwhelmed already. And I thought nothing could surprise me.

   “Doesn’t it make you feel dizzy?” I ask, starting to walk forward toward the end of the hall.

   Des laughs. “I’ve been here a while, but I guess that would be the general feeling among those not used to what we can do.”

   “And you’ll train me here?”

   “Yes. You’re a quick learner and adapt easily, that’s evident already, so we should only need a week at the most to get you familiar with all the basic abilities. Then I’ll show you some specialised stuff that you’ll need especially for your assignment, before you leave.”

   “You have it all planned out, then,” I say quietly.

   “We always have everything planned out, Kay,” he replies. I shake my head, but am prevented from replying by the doors at the end opening. “Here we go, the day must be over.” I’m suddenly reminded of the end-of-day cheer at school, when the final bell rings and everyone’s voices are naturally higher, more jubilant, locker doors closed with finality, conversations flying, organising dates and meet-ups and rendezvous. A river of solid-looking kids come swarming through the doors, ranging from tween all the way to young adult, late twenties even. They come chatting gaily down the hall, oblivious to my form pressed against a wall, assaulted with a storm of flying emotions slapping me across the face moment by moment, reaching an unbearable pitch as they pass by me. They turn and stare at a point somewhere next to me with mixed awe and interest, quickly averting eyes in what I would swear is respect. Then they’re gone and the emotional assault abates like the receding tide. I’m breathing heavy against the wall and I feel sweat prickling my forehead. A warm pressure touches my face and I look up.

   “They could see you,” I whisper, struggling to bring my breathing under control. “How could they see you? Why is it just me that can’t?”

   “It’s complicated,” Des sighs, dropping his hand. “Frustratingly complicated and now is not the time for stories.” Something in his voice warns me that the subject is off-limits. I burn to know the answer to his riddles, to know why he is treated with respect verging on reverence by those younger than he, but I don’t want hostility so soon after being introduced to this world, so I shut my mouth and shrug.

   “So who are they? Students?”

   “They are trainees here.” His voice takes on a lecture tone, as I feel his hand gently guiding me through the doors into a massive spacious area, octagonal-shaped, the light almost palpable and dazzling. “When a spirit enters our world they are given the choice, to move on into Heaven or to remain on Earth as ghosts. Most choose to move on, but some want to stay here, moving invisibly among humans, for eternity. A very few have no choice. The souls with troubled lives, who can’t let go, who haven’t made peace with themselves, are barred from Heaven. When they become ghosts, they usually come here to learn how to use their newfound abilities, control and refine them. There are those who never leave, such as the scholars working here.” Looking around, I realise that there are rows upon rows of balsa wood desks, some piled with papers, others apparently empty, a few with computers, radiating out from the middle; further back, aisles of bookcases begin, towering higher than I can see, light, thin ladders built on rails alongside them. Men and women pepper the area, seated at the desks, moving along the aisles, perched atop ladders reaching for a certain book. All share the same studious, serious expression, as well as the same air of intelligence superiority. The mood is so quiet and scholarly that I dare not speak, not so much as blink without ensuring it is silent. Des’ voice seems a violation of some unconscious protocol when he continues his lecture, oblivious to the atmosphere of stifling quiet, the demand for respect to those engaged in higher pursuits. “The scholars research any number of things, not just spirit-related but even things they may have been researching in the physical world. With our advanced technology they are introduced to a whole new world of information, a limitless resource of facts and figures they dip into again and again in constructing thesis, theories and arguments.” Des chuckles. “I personally find it all stiflingly boring and constrictive. My own secondary job is far better, IMO.”

   We leave the octagonal room and enter a darker, less constricting area, with a low ceiling and potted plants in shady greens and browns. I realise that this is, in fact, another hall, except one surrounding a courtyard. Glass floor-to-ceiling windows reveal a rectangular paved area on the lower floor, the majority of which is taken up with tall, leafy plants hiding benches and small water fountains. It is peaceful, serene, and I know this is one place I will visit often.

   “I will be training you here,” Des says, to my surprise. “Most trainees and their trainers prefer the proper training area, but I won’t need their equipment to teach you. My methods are far simpler, and more effective. I find the atmosphere here a welcome change from the charged determination of the students further away, and the peaceful auras naturally produced by the trees help to channel focus into productivity.”

   Turning left, I descend a flight of stairs and enter the courtyard. Now on the same level, I realise that there is far more space under the trees than I previously thought, including alcoves and open spaces allowing sunlight to stream in from the glass ceiling many stories above. If the scholar’s library had been stiflingly silent, here it is tranquilly quiet, allowing me to breathe.

   “When do we start?” I ask, wandering over to a bench and sitting down. Sudden warmth beside me tells me that Des has sat down as well. “Tomorrow,” he replies. “For now you can become used to yourself and be introduced to your room. I don’t expect you to work too hard in your first lesson, since this must be a huge shock to you. But I will always expect you to concentrate. Oh, one more thing before you leave.” I look at him, or where I think he is anyway. “Tomorrow you will see me. It is necessary for the training. But it won’t be my true form, only a costume.”

   I laugh in bewildered amusement. “A disguise? You’re very mysterious, Des.”

   “I know,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry.”

   Reaching out my hand, I find that I can touch him, he is material, after all, only invisible. Tracing my fingers up his arm and stopping at his face, I say, “Me too.” The intimacy I feel toward this unknown stranger, this old new friend, burns where we touch. I feel it in my palm, a scorching heat pressing against every nerve, proving that I know him already, though we only just met. I’m overcome with the need to kiss him, to prove to myself that I’m not imagining it. Yet I know this is off-limits, that he wouldn’t respond as I want him to. I pull away, and a sigh escapes his lips.

   Footsteps are heard, and I look toward where we came from. A young woman appears, wearing the same entranced peacefulness that I know is on my face, a natural reaction to the serenity of this place.

   “Penelope,” Des says. “Time to show our newest member the living area?”

   Penelope nods with a grin. “You’ll love it,” she says to me with a wink. “Best accommodation for ghosts in Europe. I would say the northern hemisphere, but then there’s Sarsaparilla Plaza in California, isn’t there? All modern and ‘up with the times’, even though every spirit facility is anyway...” She rolls her eyes and I don’t know whether to look amused or confused or share in her consternation. Then Des says,

   “I’ll see you tomorrow, Kay. Meet me here at 9am,” and before I can reply I can feel that he’s gone. Penelope calls out a cheerful goodbye and waves, her focused eyes showing me that even she can see him.

   Curious, I ask, “What does he look like, Penelope?”

   She turns back to me in bewilderment. “Can’t you see him?”

   “No.”

   “Odd,” she says. “It must be for a reason, though. Des never does anything without a reason. I bet I’m not allowed to tell-” She stops mid-sentence, her face taking on a look of inner concentration, eyes staring into the middle distance. Then her face clears and she says brightly, “Yep, I was right! I can’t tell you anything. Sorry, Kay, but at least tomorrow you can talk to an actual person, rather than thin air.” At my puzzled look, she explains, “Ghosts are telepathic among each other, but only short distance. It’s a handy way of communicating within facilities, like this one, or when on assignments.”

   “That’s cool,” I say, and she laughs.

   “Come on, I better show you the accommodation before I chat your ears off. Though that’s nigh impossible since you’re immaterial anyway...” She skips briskly back to the stairs and I follow, struggling to keep up with her apparently limitless energy. Taking a right at the head of the stairs, we follow the hall around, enter into another part of the building, continue a short way until we reach a less ancient-looking area, recently renovated. Opening the doors, I step into yet another large and airy space, except this one is cutting edge and modern, with angular, minimalist furniture, glass decorations as well as a glass spiral staircase leading to a loft, and yet more windows leading out to a deck overlooking a garden.

   “It’s very useful being a ghost,” Penelope says, “as we don’t leave footprints or other dirty marks, so the glass doesn’t have to be cleaned. Or anything, for that matter. Being conceived on the spiritual plane dust and deterioration don’t exist. It’s great!” She gestures at the loft. “Up there is our dining room and kitchen. We cook ourselves, well technically anyway. I mean we’re meant to, but Sandra loves cooking and does all our meals, except breakfast. She’s rarely up before 11am on a good day. So do your own breakfast. All our bedrooms are over there,” gesturing underneath the ceiling created by the loft, where another archway led to a hallway, doors at regular intervals along its length. “This is our main living area, when you have nothing else to do you can read or daydream or whatever. Reuben draws, I write, Lois plays video games. She’s really good too. We all have our own thing, you’ll soon find yours. Then through there,” gesturing at a door next to the deck, “we have pool and foosball, beanbags, I guess all the really fun stuff. Plus a whole stack of DVDs and CDs. Of course, ghosts have access to the Grid, our own version of the Internet, where we can download any movie or song or book or whatever ever created, but some prefer old-fashioned classic Earth technology, rather than that created by the spirits. Oh, you do know ghosts don’t have to sleep, don’t you?”

   My bewildered stare confirmed her suspicions.

   “Des really hasn’t told you a lot, has he? Usually trainers go through all the basics as soon as the trainee arrives, but I guess yours is a special case. Well, technically we’re dead – except for you, but it still applies – so we don’t need to fight to stay alive, by eating and rejuvenating and whatnot. If you wanted you could go on without all those distractions forever, like the scholars. I mean, when people say they never leave, they literally mean  never, horrifying as it sounds. Most ghosts opt to continue the habits they’d formed as humans though. We still eat and sleep, when we want. It’s great though, we don’t gain weight, and we don’t have to worry about malnutrition or anything like that. If you suddenly get depressed and don’t eat for days on end, you’ll still feel as healthy as before you became depressed. Though you may end up craving food, since your mind is still used to the idea of eating.” She takes a breath and I take the opportunity to ask,

   “Who else lives here?”

   “Oh,” she grins again. I wonder if there’s ever any occasion where she doesn’t smile. “There’s four of us at the moment, the permanent young adult group. We live here full-time. We’re still training, but we’ve moved on to more refined, specialised areas of training, more in sync with what we’re interested in. We do it independently too, without the constant guidance of a trainer. There’s me, Penelope Farrell. I’m twenty and I died in 1972, so I’ve been here ages, but there’s much to learn and improve it feels like it’s been months, not years. Then there’s Reuben O’Connell, he’s twenty-four. He’s almost a trainer and he died in 2015. Sandra King was a world-renowned chef in her time, the twenty-second century. She’s thirty, the oldest of us all, but she refused to be part of the older group, she says it’s because young people always eat her food, but I think it’s so she can feel young. Even though she’s dead so it doesn’t matter anyway. Finally there’s Lois Lilley, she was a journalist in the 1920s, which is very exciting in my opinion. She’s adapted easily to our twenty-first century culture, though she still keeps some of the air of a mysterious young woman from an Agatha Christie book. That’s us, and now there’s you.”

   I suddenly feel like I’m under scrutiny. There will be nothing that Penelope won’t uncover about me, she’ll soon know everything, and I’ll be added to her list. It alarms me at some level but that level is way down deep and I’m not as bothered by it as I should. Instead, I ask, “Can I see my room?” I want nothing more than to be alone, to sleep. Whatever Penelope claims, I certainly feel endlessly exhausted.

   “Sure,” and she gestures for me to follow her. The third door down the hall is mine, #5. I open it and find a small, cleverly-organised room which makes the most of the space while still fitting in a double bed, chest of drawers, desk, wardrobe, bookcase and a beanbag in one corner. There’s a duffel bag on the bed – one I recognise with a start as my own – and when I glance at the bookcase, I see photos of me, my family, my friends, and Dean. This one I take down with a longing pang in my heart. It was taken at a park in Lilydale. His round face is grinning mischievously as he tackles me to the ground, long brown bangs falling across his light, sea-green eyes in that way I adore. Hiding the tears that threaten to spill, I put the photo back and sit on the bed.

   “We brought some of your stuff,” Penelope says. Her voice is muted, quiet. I know she feels my longing, carefully controlled as it is, and she loses the bright thoughtlessness of before. Instead, her voice is kind and gentle. “It helps new trainees get used to life here, having familiar things around them. They’re made to exist on the spiritual plane, so you don’t have to worry about your hand going through a mug or anything. There’s clothes, too. We’re having dinner in an hour, but you don’t have to eat. We all pretty much keep to ourselves except when in the social mood, so don’t worry about appearing stand-offish either. See you around, Kay.” She smiles, and then the door is closed and finally, finally, I’m alone. I fall back onto the bed, close my eyes, and cry.