Cookies, the best invention ever. Easy to eat. Tasty. And with more varieties than people on the planet. Which makes it ironic that a cookie killed me. I didn’t choke, nor did I have an allergic reaction. Not poisoned either. Rather, someone dropped a cookie from the top of our building, tall enough to reach terminal velocity, and I had the fortune of standing under it, waiting for a ride, when it hit a bird, which knocked the black cat off the balcony, which spooked the air conditioner installation worker, and caused him to drop his massive wrench, which I protected from the concrete with my head.

So now I haunt that spot. A five-foot by five-foot spot of concrete. Beside me, on my right, a Native American haunts his spot. He refuses to speak to me. A fellow Italian who died in a hail of bullets, whom I refuse to speak to because he only ever makes fun of me and how I died, haunts the spot on my left.

Jeronimo, my name for the Native American, just sits all day and night, eyes closed, and mumbles to himself. At the very edge of my area, I can just touch him, and I did so three times. The first time, he opened his eyes and stared at me for two days straight, day and night. It unnerved me, and I went a full year before I reached out and touched his shoulder again.

The second time, he stood up and moved smoothly, almost glided to the edge of his space, and punched me. Faster than I could see. Ghost blood flew from my nose while I flew across my space to land against the visible barrier between Guido and me. His actual name, swear to whatever deity exists. Guido laughed and kicked me, hard in the side of the head. Which may have given my ghostly body a concussion, because I don’t remember standing, and I only vaguely remember my punch to Jeronimo’s gut.