114

I stood on the porch with Buddy. His momma had found him missing from his place and called him eight times. Now she stood across the street, staring at us, hands on her hips.

“Come to the swing,” he said. “The light will go out.”

We walked across the front porch. The smell of petunias floated in the air.

“I see those that passed on,” I said. “It’s a Messenger Gift. You just as well know.”

“I’m glad you told me.”

The light clicked off.

“May I kiss you good night, Evie Messenger?”

I answered by kissing him first.