Touch by Michelle Sagara

Have you ever noticed that
     people seem to love less as they get older? I don’t want that to happen to me.” She
     swallowed. “If I forget him, Ally, if I reach a point where talking to him, seeing
     him, isn’t important enough—what was the point?”
    “Emma—”
    Emma smiled. “Hold this?” she asked, handing Petal’s leash to Allison without waiting
     for a reply. Allison took it in gloved hands; they were numb. It was a cold night,
     even for November.
    Emma removed her right glove; Allison held her breath as Emma held her hand out to
     the night air. She held her breath when Nathan materialized beside her best friend.
     He wasn’t dressed for November; he was dressed for summer. The cold wouldn’t touch
     him now. Aside from Emma and people like her, nothing could.
    “Hey,” Nathan said. It was dark enough she couldn’t see the color of Emma’s eyes,
     although she knew they were a lighter shade of brown. She couldn’t see the color of
     Nathan’s, either.
    For a long moment, she said nothing. And then, exhaling, she said, “Hey, Nathan.”
    * * *
    The problem with being Emma’s best friend was that Emma understood her. Allison smiled.
     She
did
. But the expression was half-frozen; it was like a mask. Emma knew. Emma needed Allison
     to be happy for her, and the best Allison could do was try.
    But it was November, it was cold, and Allison knew that touching the dead sucked warmth
     and heat out of Emma. “We should—we should go inside,” she suggested. It was a compromise.
    Emma’s smile was fragile, and it broke. Her hand—her bare, gloveless hand—twined with
     Nathan’s, tightened.
    “It’s cold,” Allison said again. “And you’re not going to get any warmer if you—if
     Nathan—” She shook her head. She had Petal’s leash, but Petal was no longer tugging
     at it; he’d doubled back. Allison watched as he headed toward Nathan, whining anxiously.
     His stub of a tail was still. He wasn’t growling. But he wasn’t happy, either—and
     he’d always liked Nathan.
    They all watched as he walked back and forth through Nathan, as if he were a particularly
     solid shadow. He whined, and Emma eventually tried to feed him—but for once he wasn’t
     interested in food.
    Allison took the leash more firmly in hand and began to walk; Emma followed, Nathan
     held just as tightly.
    It was quiet. It was the wrong type of quiet. Emma said nothing, but Allison knew
     the look. She wasn’t happy, but she didn’t want to start an argument about Nathan
     in front of Nathan. Allison didn’t want to start an argument at all.
    But she understood why Mercy had no desire to see her dead husband again. She was
     certain that Emma wouldn’t see it the same way—and who could blame her? Ghosts didn’t
     age. They didn’t change. Their touch was cold enough to numb. They couldn’t work.
     They couldn’t eat. They couldn’t
live
, or they wouldn’t be dead.
    Emma wasn’t dead, but she stood in death’s shadow—and she wanted to stay there.
    You don’t understand
, Allison thought, because she knew that’s what Emma wanted to say to her. And maybe
     it was true. But Nathan was dead. He was always, and forever, dead. She was afraid
     that Emma would join him.
    And she couldn’t say that. Not now. Maybe not ever.
Who is it hurting?
    You, Emma. It’s hurting you
.
    But Emma would tell her she’d lived in a world of hurt since last July, and this was
     the first time she could see an end to that pain. There weren’t many things you couldn’t
     say to your best friend—but Allison was facing one of them now.
    Emma’s phone rang. Emma fished it out of her pocket without letting go of Nathan’s
     hand, which was awkward; she was trembling with cold. Nathan watched her as she fumbled
     and then looked past her to meet Allison’s eyes.
    Allison wanted to talk to him about Emma—but that couldn’t happen now. Anything Nathan
     heard, Emma would hear by default; she was his only