"Please, my friend," he says. "Make yourself at home." You move into the space of the chair. It's wire, with a pink cushion, part of a two-piece set Holly had probably picked up at a yard sale. You remember how uncomfortable it is, even if you can't feel it now. Above the desk is a bulletin board, painted pink, but now stripped of all Holly's photos. "You seem very upset," Aldo says. He runs a hand over his stubbly chin and studies you. His eyes are the color of the Mediterranean, blue-blue like Holly's. "What's happened?" Your frustration threatens to boil over, so you first take a deep breath. "It's everything," you say. "My mom. Dad. Holly. I don't think I can take this anymore. I mean, what is the point of being dead if I'm stuck here with all of these people." Aldo chuckles. "Most people would want to see their famiglia," he said. "No, I mean, I want to see them," you reply. "It's just that they're hurting and there's nothing I can do. And I'm pretty sure I'm part of the reason they're hurting..." The old guy lets out a low whistle.
