The exorcism went as smoothly as I could have hoped. Maybe smoother.

  It was a family of three and a dog. The dog really sold it. They were exhausted, just like Orson said, and desperate. They were also religious, which helped more than I’d like to admit.

  We avoided the cemetery on the way, even though it added fifteen minutes. It was still early, and thankfully not yet a hundred degrees. And if anyone reading this thinks there’s no real difference between ninety and a hundred, come spend a summer here. Step outside at eight in the morning, then again at eleven, and tell me it’s the same. And don’t give me that “it’s a dry heat” bullshit. Ever open an oven and forget to step back? That’s Arizona summer. Living here is an affront to both God and nature.

  When we reached the neighborhood, we passed the lot where the mimic had been. They had fenced it off now, a massive hole where the house used to be. The place Orson picked was right across the street—same model, slightly darker beige. Two cars in the driveway, plus an old beater parked at the curb with a sign that read:

  As-is. Best offer.

  I gave Orson a look.

  He shrugged. “What?”

  I couldn’t believe he brought me back here, and I hoped no one would recognize me. Then I realized they probably didn’t even remember seeing me.

  The dad answered the door. I was immediately relieved—not just because of the glorious blast of cold air, but because it was clear he had no idea who I was. He looked like he’d seen a ghost, which I found comforting.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “May I help you?”

  Great, he doesn’t remember me.

  Crap! Getting paid is going to be a pain.

  “I’m here about your ghost problem,” I said, stopping the door as he absently tried to close it again.

  “Oh!” His eyes lit up. “Yes! Come in! It’s terrible!”

  The A/C hummed beautifully. Orson had done a proper job—family photos flipped, broken dishes, general chaos. You know, the works.

  “Just you?” I asked.

  “Huh? Oh, my wife and daughter are at grandma’s,” he said, having already forgotten I was there. “They didn’t feel safe, so I sent them away earlier this morning.”

  “I see.”

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  That’s when the dog came in barking its little chihuahua head off. Orson didn’t need instructions. He zipped around the room, and the dog chased him, snapping at thin air.

  “Nanners!” the man said, scooping her up. “What is it, girl?”

  “It’s here,” I said ominously—think the little old lady from Poltergeist, but deeper and significantly manlier.

  He jumped.

  The man jumped and turned. He looked surprised. I sighed, remembering now why I couldn’t hold down a job. Honestly, the short time I’d lived at the trailer park had me forgetting just how much normal people didn’t notice me.

  “The ghost,” I clarified. “I’m here to deal with it.”

  He nodded, deflating my theatrics instantly. I sighed, remembering why I’d never been good at jobs.

  I went to the kitchen and rummaged through the cabinets. Third one had it—Morton’s salt.

  “You mind?” I asked, holding it up.

  He shook his head.

  “Good. Stand by the door. Hold the dog.”

  Shockingly, he did exactly that.

  “What are you doing with my salt?” he asked, suddenly suspicious.

  “I’m going to take care of your ghost,” I said, rolling my eyes.

  “Right,” he said, nodding. But he said it in a way that I knew he had no clue who I was but was pretending so he didn’t feel like an idiot.

  I stepped into the living room and started chanting absolute nonsense. No Latin. Didn’t matter. I peppered in classics: Begone spirit, Leave this place, The power of Christ compels you. He reacted strongest to the Jesus stuff, so I leaned into it. Salt toss. Finger crosses. In Jesus’ name! Salt toss.

  Orson took that as his cue and started throwing things. A family photo missed me. A couch pillow nailed me in the face.

  “Now you’re making me angry, foul spirit!” I shouted, glaring directly at Orson’s stupid grin. “You have no dominion here!”

  “Hey, stop! What are you doing?” The guy yelled as Nanners went berserk.

  I stopped, took a frustrated breath, turned to him with a grim expression, and said, “Your ghost. It’s a strong one.” I could see him remembering who I was and why I was there. “I’ve wrestled with worse.”

  Then I raised my arms and escalated the nonsense. Orson went wild. Finally, he shot through the ceiling, leaving a dripping ectoplasmic stain. A drop hit my face.

  Total dick. He absolutely did that on purpose.

  “It’s gone,” I said, slumping dramatically, pretending I’d exhausted myself from the psychic energy I’d just spent. I walked over to the man and his little dog, too (I’ve always wanted to say that), and brought up the matter of payment.

  “Payment?” he asked, offended. “For what?”

  I stared at him, gestured to the wrecked room, and said, “For removing your ghost.”

  “Oh. Right. How much?”

  I surveyed the damage. “Four hundred.”

  “I don’t have that. Will one hundred work?”

  I looked past him at the car. “How about the junker out front?”

  He looked at it, then back at me, “Deal.”

  He handed me the keys and said he could meet me at the bank to transfer the title.

  Not worth getting into, but he didn’t show, which is why I wrote him a note before I left that said, “Thanks for the car, happy to take care of your ghost problem. Call me if you encounter anymore. Your next exorcism is free.”

  He never called because Orson never went back.

  He also never reported the car stolen, which was my biggest fear. Just a job done and zero money to show for it. But no more walking in the heat.

  Silver linings and all that.

  On the way home, I stopped and grabbed some Pepsi for Malachi, then returned to my trailer. When I got out of the car, I heard a familiar bark.

  It was Charlie.

  No mistaking it.

  I asked Amir if psychic energy was a thing. He said no. Then, maybe. Then, he explained that he never had psychic powers, so he was really the wrong person to ask.