Frying bacon. Here we go, I thought, opening my eyes. Here we go. Saturday morning, 1984. Again. Except, where’s the rest? I smelled bacon, and toast maybe, but not the pancakes or the creamy sweetened coffee, or the snow shovel and the bitter air. Incomplete. Strange. Very strange. Was this the diminishment of sharing? If Robin was getting the ghosts, too, was she taking some of mine away? My God. That’s right. Robin had said she was getting this, too. That happened. It wasn’t a dream. She did say that. Yes, I’m sure. She did. The whole of the previous evening came rushing into consciousness at once. Dad. The sleepovers. My room. The diary. Jesus Christ. The diary. And then the smells. She said she was getting the smells. Mom and Dad. Like they’d been in the room, she said. Like they’d been in the room.
