“Yep. You’re dead.”

“What do you mean, dead?”

“I mean you’re out of commission – you ceased existing; your heart stopped beating; you’re finito, capiche, and all those nice things.”

“How can I be dead?” Harper wailed, glaring at him through her ghostly tears.

“Someone killed you – or, to be more specific, that sandbag killed you,” he said, pointing with a thumb over his shoulder to the stage.

Harper stared at the stage, her mind in a whirl.

I died.

“So…now that I’ve explained it to you, all nice and scientific – like, be a good ghosty and come with me peacefully.”

“No!” she barked, jerking away from his seeking grasp. “I refuse to believe that I just … expired! There has to be a reason!”

“Of course there’s a reason – the sandbag killed you, genius. You have to come with me.”

“I do not! I turned eighteen four years ago, and I have the right to refuse you.”

“Wrong,” he grinned, holding up a bag. “You have absolutely no right to refuse me.”