“You're dead," I repeated. "So why are you in my dream?"He raised the bill of his olive drab ball cap with one finger. " Good question. Morbid, isn't it?""What?""Dreaming about dead peolpe. Creepy. You ever see a therapist about that?""I'm not -" Even in dreams, I couldn't win an argument. Even when he was dead.”

“What's so horrible about being dead forever, and not feeling anything, and not even dreaming? What's so great about feeling and dreaming?”

“Land of the Dead? Is that what you dream about?” she asks. “Boy who kills ghosts for a living?” “No. I dream about penguins doing bridge construction. Don’t ask why.”

“He turned to me, and do you know what he said to me ? He said in a deadly serious tone, 'Momma, am I dead?' And I said 'no honey, you're not dead', and he shook his head, looking all confused about something. Then he pointed to you dancing and said, 'if I'm not dead, then why is there an Angel in our house.'”

“You were never one to moon over handsome boys, or talk about balls and parties, or dream about your future husband.”“That was because of Merripen,” Win admitted. “He was all I ever wanted.”

“What were you dreaming about?""You." He twisted a lock of her hair around his finger. "I always dream about you.""Oh, yeah? Because I thought you were having a nightmare."He tipped his head back to look at her. "Sometimes I dream you're gone," he said. "I keep wondering when you'll figure out how much better you could do and leave me.”