“Are there any more rules?” I asked, because I didn’t know what else I was supposed to say.

“Yes, but we’ll talk about the rest later. It’s getting late. We should probably head home before your mother starts to worry.”

“Can she see them?”

“No. And you mustn’t tell her that you can.”

“Why not?”

“She doesn’t believe in ghosts. She’d think you’re imagining things. Or telling stories.”

“I would never lie to Mama!”

“I know that. But this has to be our secret. When you’re older, you’ll understand. For now, just do your best to follow the rules and everything will be fine. Can you do that?”

“Yes, Papa.” But even as I promised, it was all I could do to keep from glancing over my shoulder.

The breeze picked up and the chill inside me deepened. Somehow, I managed to keep from turning, but I knew the ghost had drifted closer. Papa knew it, too. I could feel the tension in him as he murmured, “No more talking. Just remember what I told you.”

“I will, Papa.”

The ghost’s frigid breath feathered down the back of my neck and I started to tremble. I couldn’t help myself.

“Cold?” my father asked in his normal voice. “Well, it’s getting to be that time of year. Summer can’t last forever.”

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. The ghost’s hands were in my hair. He lifted the golden strands, still warm from the sun, and let them sift through his fingers.

Papa got to his feet and pulled me up with him. The ghost skittered away for a moment, then floated back.

“We best be getting on home. Your mother’s cooking up a mess of shrimp tonight.” He picked up the rakes and hoisted them to his shoulder.

“And grits?” I asked, though my voice was hardly louder than a whisper.