Porcupine Ridge amygdala

No, of course it wasn't ma, ma was six feet under, ma was fodder for the crows and the mushrooms that sprouted from the nitrogen that seeped from her body into the soil, so cancer-ridden that she might as well have been dead at least three months before her actual last breath left her. Low-effect zombie, insulin coma mannequin, up until the end.

In Bailey's eyes she still sees her, the sallow back pressed against moss stiff and stale with sweat. She could count the knobs on her spine even from ten paces away in the dark den.

Sorry, she says, her voice just a few seconds away from a real sob. She drags in a shaky breath and the cold air hurts her teeth. Just underneath the enamel, the nerves snarling like tangled wire. I was just fixin to leave.

Far too many ghosts for a girl who'd only lived through four seasons.