For a change, as Orlando lies in bed watching the night bleed away, it isn’t Sorrel who is on his mind, as she often is these days. Orlando had a dream. He and Ruben were having lunch, sitting at their usual table in the school cafeteria. Orlando had a thick sandwich and a bowl of salad in front of him, but Ruben had a plate of homemade lasagne that looked and smelled just like the lasagne Ruben’s mother always made. Orlando couldn’t figure out how that was possible. Nobody makes lasagne like Ruben’s mom. And then he looked over at the kitchen and saw Sylvia Rossi working behind the counter. He waved, but she was too busy to wave back. He turned to ask Ruben when his mother decided to become a dinner lady, but Ruben was deep in conversation. He was talking to the person next to him about painting: depth and movement, light and shadow. It’s been a long time since he heard Ruben talk like that, and he was passionate and intense – the way he used to be. The only problem was that there was no one there. “Ruben! Ruben!” Orlando had to kick him to get his attention. “Ruben, man, who are you talking to? Are you talking to yourself?” Apparently, he was talking to Sorrel. “Sorrel’s dead,” said Orlando. “Don’t you remember? Don’t you remember the funeral? You can’t be talking to her.” Ruben said that dead isn’t the same as gone. She was right there, right beside him. Why couldn’t Orlando see her? She was clear as the food on the table. He and Sorrel hung out together all the time now, he said. “Don’t ruin it for us,” ordered Ruben. “Stay out of it. We’re having a good time.”

The alarm goes off, and Orlando slowly gets out of bed, still thinking about Sylvia Rossi’s lasagne and Ruben talking to Sorrel. He doesn’t need a dream interpreter to know what this one was about. He dreamed that Ruben’s mother was working in the cafeteria because he hasn’t seen her since before Christmas, when Ruben started acting weird. Since Ruben’s father died, Orlando didn’t spend as much time at the Rossis’ as he used to – none of them did – but all of a sudden he wasn’t spending any time at all there; Ruben wouldn’t even let him in the house. No more lasagne suppers, no more hanging out till all hours, no more crashing on the fold-out. Whenever Orlando stopped by to pick up Ruben, he’d be on the porch before Orlando turned up the front path. The reason for the Sorrel part of the dream is obvious, too. It’s because he thought he saw her that time, standing at the side of the road. He didn’t see her, he knows that, but every now and then he gets an instant replay of that moment, and wonders what it was he did see. Obviously, what his brain’s done is conflate these two things – his worry about Ruben because of how odd he’s been acting all year – and his unease about himself, seeing things that aren’t there.

Orlando puts on his running clothes, and silently leaves the house. Beyond any doubt, Orlando’s twice-daily runs are the best part of his day. This is one of the ways he gets rid of tension; this is one of the times he feels most like himself. Out of the house and away from his father’s expectations, completely alone with just his own thoughts and no one talking to him or wanting him to talk to them or needing anything from him or seeing him as a sports legend in the making. The morning run is his favourite, out at first light when almost no one else is stirring yet. He always chooses a route where the houses are few and far between, so that it is just him and the road, the sky and the trees, and, on this morning, a pale wash of sunlight and the smell of roses in the air. Because it’s so early, no cars pass him and the houses still have their eyes closed. Usually he listens to music while he runs, but today he’s turned it off and the only sounds are the occasional call of a bird, rustlings in the woods and underbrush, and his own feet slapping against the ground.

A plane flies overhead, a bird calls and Orlando’s footsteps thud against the asphalt, steady as a heartbeat. The further he goes, the more the dream recedes. His breathing is measured, his back wet with sweat as he turns onto Brandywine. It’s a long, narrow lane with a creek running on one side and a hill rising up on the other. There are only four houses on the entire stretch, three of them up steep drives and out of sight, the fourth across the creek and guarded by a wall of pines. A chipmunk scoots across the road, a kingfisher whistles thinly over by the water, a deer steps delicately through the trees. As if Orlando is the only person in a perfect world. He rounds the bend, and the world quickly becomes just a little less perfect as another runner comes up beside him. Without turning his head, Orlando can see purple shorts and hairless legs. She must have come out of the woods on the left. Silently. Orlando slows down, expecting her to pass him. When she doesn’t, Orlando picks up speed. To his surprise, his unwanted companion keeps pace. It’s only then that he realizes that, besides the roses, he smells lilacs.

In the same instant that his heart jumps a beat she says, “So what’d you think of the funeral? Was that a farce or what?”

This can’t be happening. He knows that. There is no evidence to support the existence of ghosts. None. Nada. Zilch. Ghosts are all about light. Lights and shadows. Reflections. Electricity. Optical illusions. Maybe he should add bad dreams to that list.

“I mean, seriously?” Sorrel glides along beside him as if she’s on wheels. The girl who always said that running was for giraffes. “My closest two hundred friends? What a joke.” Now he looks over. She’s wearing a top to match the shorts and her favourite earrings – chains of gold stars – that gently swing as she moves. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail. Ponytails are for children, was another thing she always said. He can hear himself breathe, but he can’t hear her breathe. Her voice, however, is loud and clear. Instead of stopping, he goes even faster. “God, what hypocrites people are. Did you catch Cati Grear and her coven? You must’ve. Like a murder of crows around a stranded fish. And crying like they didn’t hate my guts and always made sure I knew it. Thank God for waterproof mascara, right? Where would the world be without it?” She shakes her head. “It’s weird, isn’t it? People either pretend to like you when you’re alive, or they pretend to like you when you die. You’d think they could come up with one policy, and stick to it.”

Maybe he’s still dreaming. That has to be it. He hasn’t woken up yet. He thought he woke up, but he didn’t. It’s one of those dreams. On and on and on. He’s still back in bed, still sleeping, but his dream has moved on from Sylvia Rossi making lasagne in the cafeteria and Ruben telling him not to ruin things for him and Sorrel, and now he’s dreaming that he’s running and she’s beside him, critiquing her own funeral. “I’m dreaming,” he gasps. “There’s no one else here. It’s just a dream.”

“And what about all those guys?” Sorrel is not gasping; Sorrel might as well be sitting down. “Every boy I ever went out with was there. It was like a Who’s Who of losers. Except you, of course.” She laughs. “You’re not one of the losers. You’re my friend. You I liked. But the rest of them? God help me, even that jerk Shoehorn was there. I mean, seriously? After the way he bad-mouthed me because I broke up with him? Give me a break.”

“I know that this is a dream,” says Orlando – not to her – there’s no way he’s talking to a hallucination – but to the road ahead of him. “All I have to do is wake up.”

“And let’s not forget that stupid dress they buried me in. I looked like I was going to a dance, not a grave. And that coffin. Chrissake! What was I supposed to be? Barbie in a box?”

Orlando digs his nails into his palms. Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!

You can accuse my family of a lot of things. My dad’s useless. My mom’s a menace. The twins are oblivious. I mean, if no one told my brothers I was dead they probably would never have noticed, they’re always so stoned. And if Meryl the Peril thinks she could fool me with all her tears and acting like her world just ended, she’s wrong. Believe me, she was sobbing from guilt, not sorrow. But you know the one thing you can’t accuse them of? Do you, Orlando?”

Wake up! Wake up! Wake up! Wake up! Orlando forces himself forward with one last burst of speed.

Sorrel is right beside him, giving no sign that her lungs are about to burst. “No one could ever accuse my family of good taste, that’s what!” she shouts.

A horn sounds behind him. Orlando finally stops running and jumps to the shoulder, just managing not to fall over. He bends forward, his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. It’s a minute before he realizes that Sorrel is gone.

He doesn’t let himself wonder if she’ll be coming back.