“Exactly," He tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. "Sometimes we help ourselves, and sometimes we get help from ghosts in the woods and bampots in BMWs.”

“Daytimers. Sunnysides. What do you call us behind our backs?""Dinner."This shuts me up until we reach my door.”

“I’ve been writing more songs in my head,” he said, “about being a ghost and a shade.” His face turned smooth and solemn. “How I’d die all over again just to touch you.”

“When I got tired, Logan would sing me to sleep, sometimes a painfully appropriate song like Flogging Molly’s “If I Ever Leave This World Alive” or Snow Patrol’s “Chasing Cars.” Sometimes he’d pick a lilting Irish lullaby, or even a song he’d written himself.”

“He leaned in. “Kiss me, one last time.” I called up a distant memory of his lips against mine. But this time, I kept my eyes open.When he pulled back, Logan passed his hand over my hair. “Don’t forget me, okay?”

“I hate when people act like music is nothing but wild creativity," Logan said. "That's bullshit. It's also about counting and measuring and calibrating. If you do it right." He passed his hand over my MP3 player sitting on the bed between us. It was playing Mozart to help my concentration. "And if you do it really right, no one can tell how hard it is for you. You can let them believe it's magic, because that means you must be magic. You're worth worshipping.”

“Even the second time around, the lyrics and melody reached through my ears, bypassed my brain, and went straight to my heart, where they wriggled around, causing a hundred different pains.”