Ghost Boy by Iain Lawrence

stumps of a washed-out bridge and covered the road from shoulder to shoulder. Samuel stood there, but to Harold he looked like only a stump, until he turned and came across the grass.
    â€œAlmost drove right off the road,” he said. “The rain the way it was, mud all over the headlights, I couldn’t see a thing. Not a thing.” He was rubbing his hairy fists together. “I just hope old Bob saw it. What if he rode himself straight into the river?”
    â€œThe horse wouldn’t let him,” said Harold.
    â€œMaybe not. Maybe not.” Samuel’s claws clicked as he wrung his hands. “No, I suppose you’re right. Of course that’s true.”
    The river went by in a dark, silent rush. Harold watched it oozing through the grass, and he thought what a sad, tiny thing the Rattlesnake was. And suddenly he felt very far from home, and remembered his dog and his mother.
    Samuel was watching him, staring down from his great height. “What’s wrong with your eyes?” he asked.
    â€œNothing,” said Harold.
    â€œThey’re kind of moving. They’re jumping like Mexican beans.”
    Harold blushed. He felt in his pockets for his glasses.
    â€œDo things look wobbly?” asked Samuel, bending closer. “Is everything you see sort of moving?”
    â€œNo,” said Harold.
    Samuel straightened. “Can you see what I look like?”
    He was the ugliest thing that Harold had ever seen. Below the big, thick brows his face was squashed and flat. The hair that grew from it hung in tufts, thickened by dirt and rain.
    â€œCan you?” asked Samuel again.
    â€œNot really,” lied Harold.
    â€œYou’re lucky.” The little eyes seemed sad. “You wouldn’t believe how lucky you are.”
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    T HE CLOUDS BROKE UP and the sun came out, but the river didn’t fall; it rose higher. Samuel drove a stick into the ground at its edge, and they sat on a bit of canvas—the midget, the monster and Harold the Ghost—watching the water creep up the stick. It spread through the grass toward them.
    A milking stool went past, and then a chicken coop turning circles, with a rooster crowing at its top.
    â€œIf a rocking chair goes by,” said Samuel, “I’m going to fetch it. I always wanted a rocking chair.”
    â€œAnd a chest of drawers,” said Princess Minikin. “With a big old mirror that tilts and turns. That’s what I’d like.” Then she looked at Harold. “What about you?”
    Harold leaned back on his arms. He thought of all the things he wanted, and imagined it would take a raft to hold them all. He tried to picture it coming slowly down the river, stacked with fishing poles and Daisy rifles, towing kites with long tails of red ribbons. He saw a television set and an army of toy soldiers. He saw a huge heap of boxes. And then, balanced on top of it all, his brother, David, was sitting in his uniform, waving as he came, and there at the front was Honey. He even heard her bark.
    Suddenly he was crying. He wasn’t making a sound, but tears were trickling out from his glasses. The raft disappeared and he saw Honey instead, lying on the floor where he’d left her.
    â€œSay, I’m sorry,” said Tina. “Gosh, I didn’t want to make you feel bad.”
    â€œI guess he misses his home,” said Samuel.
    â€œOf course he does, you lug.”
    Samuel shifted to his knees. “Jolly jam!” he said. “Let’s give him a jolly jam.”
    They closed around him, Tina standing up to throw her arms around his neck, Samuel folding down to take him in those enormous, hairy fists. They crushed him from either side; they rocked him back and forth.
    They squeezed the sadness from the Ghost. They squeezed it up so it filled him at first—more than it ever had—then poured from him like the sour juice of a lemon. In its place came a