“There are no ghosts in this story, I say to Davis.
Oh yeah? Then show me where the people are.
I look up at him. What people?
Davis waves the pages I've left on my tray so they flap in the air. These people, he says. I can see them, I can hear them, I know them, but they're not in this room. They're not on this block.
They're not in this prison or this town or this country or even this same world as you and me. They're in some other place.
[…]
They're ghosts, brother, he says. Not alive, not dead.
An in-between thing.
[…]
You could say that about any story there is, I tell him.
Now you're singing my song, brother.”