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    Summary

    “Look,” Faraday tapped the ash off his cigarette into a plastic solo cup full of sand that he kept tucked into the cup-holder in the center console, a sort of poor-man's ashtray, “worst case scenario, I run into a spook with a bad attitude and wind up getting banned from yet another of California’s many proud testaments to yesteryear. Won’t be the first time it happens and probably won’t be the last, either. Best case, I don’t run into any ghosts at all, nobody catches me talking to myself and worries about my sanity, and we all get to go on pretending that our entire family doesn’t think I’m in the middle stages of some weird psychosis until ma brings it up at Christmas after a few too many hot toddies.”

     

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