The Language of Ghosts

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“Behold the mighty eggplant!” Lynn heard Orel’s raspy voice announce. “Noblest of all vegetables!”

A shiver twitched down her back even in the dusty afternoon heat; she stopped there in the middle of the road and let out a groan. Next to her, Malcolm cleared his throat. “Uhh, Lynn? I think your rachnoid—”

“Don’t say it, Malcolm.” She glared at him. “Don’t even breathe it!”

Malcolm shrugged, and Lynn couldn’t help noticing how his rachnoid rode out the motion of his shoulders without even a click of complaint. He reached up and stroked the little robot. “You want me to send Keshia after him?”

The simple question, the assumption that she couldn’t manage her own rachnoid, that was somehow worse than if he’d just started laughing at her. Lynn tried to keep her mouth from tightening. “Don’t worry about it. You just go on ahead; I’ll see you later in town, okay?”

He shrugged again. “How ’bout if Keshia keeps an ear open, then? In case he blows a gasket or something.”

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