“You didn’t knock on any strangers’ doors?”
“You didn’t wander off on your own?”
“No Mom. I didn’t.”
Jesse’s mother looked at the strange collection of items in his sack; eyeballs with strings of sinewy red clinging to their spherical smoothness; fingers dripping sticky goo; a severed ear; a spider, still alive.
“And everyone else got the same stuff as you?” she asked.
“Yes Mom,” said Jesse, but didn’t tell her who constituted “everyone else.”
There are no strangers’ doors when your companions are ghosts. And Jesse’s mother remembered, as she sat down, that her son was dead.