Some Assembly Required

by Lex Chase

  He held his breath, pausing just long enough to watch another set of people disappear into the void—wearing flip-flops, which was crazy, since it had to be winter. In any given week, he’d see flip-flops and winter boots, with their outfits ranging just as wildly. He wondered how he’d never noticed how messed up fashion was before.

  The last of the flip-flop–clad brigade stepped through the doors, and Benji hopped down off the dresser and made the death-defying—ha, wasn’t literally everything he did death-defying now?—leap from the shelf he’d been on to the rail of the escalator. It was a lot easier to do when the escalator wasn’t in motion, but where was the fun in that?

  The man he’d landed next to took an unconscious step to the side, leaving plenty of room for Benji to heave himself upright and begin his sprint up the rail. He was already nearly to the top, holding his arms out for balance because he knew people would instinctively duck or move so he didn’t hit them. It was weird as hell, but definitely one of the perks of being whatever he was. He was used to being invisible in crowds, but now crowds moved around him instead of making him accommodate them. It was kind of nice.

  The scent of tears got stronger, and he hopped off the top of the rail and ran toward the café. He’d lost track of the days, but it must be a weekend. Crowds were always heavier on a weekend, and today’s was insane. Benji had never been all that great at keeping track of the date when he’d had school five days a week to anchor him, so he had no chance of it now. There was probably a calendar or two in the employee breakroom if he got really curious, but he hadn’t been that bored yet. Besides, what did it matter? Weekday or weekend, his routine was the same. Though maybe he’d put some effort into tracking down a newspaper after he found this missing child—the variety of clothes he’d seen lately had been crazy, which meant there had to be some seriously whacked weather going on out there.

  He could see Patrick following along if he looked out of the corner of his eye, but he didn’t give him the satisfaction of turning around to actually look at him. In addition to observing him “for science,” Patrick liked to tease him about being a spectacle—“You’re like a circus sideshow! Watch Benji the adorable floppy-haired ghost find a needle in a haystack!”—but Benji knew Patrick actually came along because he wanted to make sure the missing child got back to its parents. He hadn’t known him long, but Benji felt like he’d made some progress into worming his way past the angry, sarcastic façade Patrick wore around himself like a shroud. Inside he was actually a really nice, caring guy.

  “Ugh, it’s all snotty.”

  Benji snorted. Well, a caring guy. Maybe not nice. But nice was overrated. Nice got you killed at age thirty-two with nothing to show for yourself but a foster cat that hated you and a weekly phone call from your mom.

  The kid couldn’t have been more than five. She might even be four. It was hard to tell with the way she was curled up. Fat teardrops rolled down her cheeks, and her T-shirt was wet enough that he could tell she’d been at it for a while. Usually when kids got this worked up, they outright bawled, but this one was silent as a grave, her eyes huge with fear and her tiny fists clenched around a well-loved blue dog that had lost most of its fur long before its trip to CASA.

  She’d wedged herself under a display. Benji knelt down in front of her so he wouldn’t look so big and imposing. He squared his shoulders and waited for the familiar jolt of excitement and unease that had startled him so much the first time he’d yelped from the shock of the energy transfer. The child he’d been with at the time—a six-year-old boy who’d wandered off while his mom was looking at kitchen cabinets—cried even louder in surprise and fear.

  He could manage it now. It was easy to get used to people seeing through him, so having a living person actually meet his eyes and look at him was uncomfortable. It felt a lot like a rush of cold water down his spine. Eerie. Which was ironic, considering the fact that he was the ghost.

  After a few beats of simply squatting there, not talking to the distraught child but watching her carefully, liquid brown eyes met his own. He suppressed a shiver, making himself smile instead. Kids could pick up on the smallest shift in emotions, and he’d gotten good at pushing his own down in his classroom.

  “What’s your friend’s name?” he asked once he was sure he had the girl’s attention. It was safer than asking hers. Parents often drilled safety into their kids, with good reason. But awareness of stranger danger made getting lost even scarier for a kid. The result was children hiding instead of trying to find help.

  Her bottom lip quivered, but she managed to stem the flow of tears with a wet sniffle. “Sam.”

  Benji grinned. “Nice strong name. Bet he’s pretty brave.”

  She swallowed, rubbed a fist across her eyes, and nodded. She clutched the dog tightly to her chest, her gaze darting from Benji to the aisle behind him. She visibly recoiled when a crowd of people went by, laughing and talking loudly.

  “Did he get lost? And you had to find him?”

  She nodded again, her body uncurling just a fraction. Another group passed behind him, but this time her eyes didn’t leave his face.

  “Can you come out, sweetheart? I know it’s scary out here, but I can help you and Sam find your parents. Did you come with your parents today?”

  Another hesitant nod. “Mommy and Aunt Ellen.”

  Benji released a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. Sometimes kids wouldn’t give him their parents’ names, and that made things so much harder. He looked over his shoulder at Patrick, who was lounging nearby, looking bored. “What’s your mommy’s name? Do you know?”

  “Sarah.”

  Benji smiled. “That’s one of my very favorite names! Do you know your last name?”

  “Grant, but Mommy’s is Wagoner.”

  Benji couldn’t help but laugh at that. The disdain in her voice had been clear. He’d bet this kid was a real spitfire when she wasn’t terrified and lost. “I see. That’s my fault for asking for yours and not hers. Thanks,” he said, ignoring Patrick’s amused laughter. “Well, I’m Benji, and back there is my friend Patrick. He’s going to go have somebody call your mom and Aunt Ellen, okay? And we’re just going to wait right here. Can I stay with you?”

  The girl nodded. Benji looked over his shoulder again and gave Patrick a pointed look. It was just to soothe Patrick’s pretend ego—he knew Patrick would go haunt someone into paging the little girl’s mother even without Benji asking him to, but this way Patrick could pretend he was only doing it to have a bargaining chip later on. He’d inevitably call it in for something stupid, like a few days ago when he’d used his last favor to make Benji set off the alarm in the freight elevator by holding the door open button down when the reedy employee Patrick liked to mess with was in it.

  It was terrible, but he kind of hoped Tommy was working today. He was by far the most susceptible person on staff, and it wouldn’t be hard for Patrick to whisper in his ear and have the kid hightail it over to the café to “find” the little girl. It would be a shame for Patrick to lose the rest of the day to the ball pit, which was what would happen if he had to expend too much energy getting someone to listen.

  Benji settled in on the floor just outside the girl’s little hideout. There wouldn’t be room for him under the shelf, and he was certain he wouldn’t be welcome even if there was. The kid seemed to have a pretty good head on her shoulders—she wouldn’t want a stranger pressed in that close. The teacher in him approved.

  “Does Sam like to play I Spy?” he asked, schooling his face into a look of utter confusion when the girl burst out laughing.

  “He’s not real!” she said, giggling even harder when Benji furrowed his brow.

  “He’s not?”

  “No, silly!” She loosed her grip on the stuffed animal enough to hold it out from underneath the shelf and wave it around. Benji bent in close and examined it.

  “Ah, I see. I did wonder when CASA started letting dogs in.” He heaved an exaggerated
sigh. “Well, do you like to play I Spy?”

  She pulled Sam back to her chest, but not with the same death grip she’d had on him earlier. She was a lot more relaxed, which was good. “Yes.”

  Benji nodded thoughtfully. “Okay. I’ll go first. I see a—”

  “No!” she howled. “Do it right!”

  He scratched his head. “Do it right?”

  “It’s ‘I spy,’” she said, shaking her head.

  “Oh, right. Well, I spy a—”

  “No!” She was giggling again, and while he was happy to have been the one to soothe her, something in Benji broke a little at the knowledge that he’d never hear the kids in his class laugh like that again. “It’s ‘I spy, with my little eye!’”

  He frowned. “But my eye is big.”

  Her grin lit up her entire face. “It’s just a saying.”

  “Okay, then. I spy, with my little eye, something red.”

  She crept forward a tiny bit, peering out around her. He’d chosen a color that wasn’t visible from this eye level so she’d have to come out. It would make it easier for the staff to see her. He was sure there had been a lost child alert for staff already, but no one would find her tucked away back under the shelf.

  “It has polka dots,” he added, scooting back himself to give her room.

  She edged her way out from under the shelf. There was dust in her ponytail, and Sam was definitely going to need a bath. But other than that, she looked unharmed.

  “Sarah Wagoner, please return to the café,” the intercom blared, and the girl’s eyes widened. She wiggled out the rest of the way and stood up.

  “That was my mommy’s name!”

  Benji nodded, indulging in a fond smile since Patrick wasn’t there to see it. “Isn’t Patrick clever? Now she’ll know where to find you! All we have to do is stay here and finish our game.”

  The girl craned her neck, searching for something red with polka dots. Benji cast around his own private search for the man in question, but he didn’t see him. He’d have gone to the front to find an intercom that would broadcast to the entire store. Not that he couldn’t have materialized back here in the café if he wanted to, but experience told Benji that Patrick would stay away now that he’d done what he could to help.

  “It’s an umbrella!”

  Benji whirled around, momentarily confused. Oh, right. Red with white polka dots. The ALLEGRO umbrella. He’d given one just like it to his mom for her birthday last year.

  “Wonderful!” he said, his voice shaking slightly at the memory. He hoped she still carried it. He liked the thought of his mom keeping a part of him with her, especially since it would be such a nice bright spot of color on a rainy day. “And look, I think that might be someone you know,” he said, pointing past the girl’s shoulder.

  She turned around and let out a shriek. “Mommy!”

  Benji watched both mother and daughter burst into tears as they hugged, Sam the dog squished between them. The girl was talking animatedly, gesturing back toward Benji, and he could tell from her mother’s bewildered look that she was telling her about him.

  He stood there for another few seconds before slipping off down one of the aisles. He knew from experience that the girl wouldn’t be able to see him now. They never could, once they weren’t lost anymore. It didn’t bother him.

  Now that she’d been reunited with her mother, though, there was no reason to stick around. He set off toward Agnes’s couch. It would probably be a while before Patrick turned up. He’d be off doing something devious to make up for his good deed. The last time they’d helped a missing child, Patrick had spent the next night disassembling all the chairs in the kitchen showroom and screwing the legs back on backward.

  Agnes was waiting for him, holding up a tangled skein of purple yarn. He didn’t question how she’d known he was coming. If he’d learned one thing in his time here, it was that Agnes was a force of nature. And also that he hated yarn. Especially hers. He’d done this for his grandmother countless times as a child, but Agnes’s yarn—he couldn’t describe it. It looked like regular yarn, but there was something off about it. His grandmother had liked to knit with angora, which was soft as a cloud and glided over his fingers like a whisper. She’d also worked with wool for the thick scarves she sent to his cousins who lived in Maine, and that was rough and scratchy and made him itch. But Agnes’s yarn wasn’t any of those things. It was warm, for one. Not hot, but warmer than room temperature for sure. And touching it never seemed to be the same experience twice. Sometimes the warmth was comforting, enveloping him like a hug. And sometimes it seemed to pulsate, making his skin crawl. He never knew what he was going to get. Agnes’s enigmatic smile stayed the same no matter what she was working with.

  He plopped down next to her and steeled himself for whatever today’s yarn was, relaxing a bit when no shivers of unease ran down his spine as he took it from her. Happy yarn today, then.

  Agnes didn’t look over, absorbed in her knitting and apparently trusting him to work through the snarled yarn himself. He started winding. “Find her parents?”

  Benji didn’t bother to ask how she knew. Agnes seemed to know everything that went on in the store, which made it all the more puzzling that Patrick thought he could prank her. Surely Patrick realized that Agnes was more, didn’t he? Benji couldn’t put it into words, not even in his own head, so he’d never tried to talk about it with Patrick. Besides, he kind of liked the unique bond he and Agnes had. It was certainly better than the antagonistic one she shared with Patrick.

  “Her mom. Pretty sure that will be the last time she wanders off. She was shaken up.”

  Agnes nodded, looking up briefly from her knitting. “Something about it shook you up too.”

  It had, but he hadn’t really noticed it until Agnes said something. He was always happy to reunite a missing kid with his or her parents, but it usually felt better than this. Today Benji just felt empty.

  And really, always and usually? Benji wasn’t one for melodrama, even in his own inner monologues. Why was he using words that implied he’d been here years when it had been a month or two, tops? He needed to find a hobby or something.

  “I wish Patrick would decide if he was avoiding me or not,” he said, because Patrick was kind of like having a hobby. If a hobby were rude and sarcastic and more often than not ended with Benji needing to regenerate in the ball pit with Agnes.

  Agnes hummed. “Patrick has a lot more than that to decide,” she murmured. Her lips moved soundlessly as she counted her stitches, though the mass of finished rows on her lap followed no discernible pattern. Agnes’s knitting was as cryptic as her advice.

  He started untangling the skein faster, since the clicking of Agnes’s knitting needles was picking up pace. There were tiny knots and whorls looped around themselves, and for a while at least, he could focus on the task in front of him instead of having to think. It was nice, and it was probably exactly what Agnes had intended when she’d beckoned him over to sit with her.

  “Sometimes the best way to muddle through our own problems is to be outside ourselves untangling someone else’s for a while,” she said.

  Her voice startled him, and he blinked a few times when he looked up, shocked to see that the store had emptied out. It must be past closing, which meant he’d spent hours here with Agnes and her yarn. The skein hadn’t looked very big at all, but it must have been deceptively large to have kept him busy all that time. Yet another puzzle for him to think about.

  There was no sign of the piece Agnes had been working on, even though Benji still had the purple yarn in his hands. Her knitting needles had disappeared, like they always did when she wasn’t actively using them. Maybe they went to the same place Benji and the other ghosts did before they regenerated. Maybe they were just a figment of his imagination and never existed at all. The only thing Benji was sure about was the fact that he wouldn’t get any answers out of Agnes about it, even if he asked.

  If he was lucky and cau
ght her in an indulgent mood, she would open up a little about purgatory, and he hoped this was one of those times.

  “Is whatever lets me talk to these lost kids the same thing that lets us communicate with the other ghosts?” he asked.

  Agnes pursed her lips and held her hands out for the yarn. Benji gave it to her obediently and then waited patiently as she studied his face.

  “To be perfectly honest, I don’t know how you do that. It’s rather… vexing,” she said after a few long seconds. She seemed frustrated by it, which made sense. There wasn’t a whole lot that happened in purgatory that Agnes didn’t know, so he could see how this would be a point of contention.

  “But to answer your question, no. I don’t think it’s directly related. The spirits here are different from you and Patrick. They’re less aware. Impressions, we call them. They’re more like memories of a person. Whereas you, and Patrick, and the others who think of themselves as ghosts, you’re a complete person. Your soul is intact. You think, you reason, you exist. The Impressions just exist in a loop until something breaks the cycle. In our case here, it’s saving someone from the same fate.”

  Karin had gone over this when they’d had their heart-to-heart. Patrick jokingly called it an employee orientation, and he wasn’t all that off base. Constrained though they were to stay within the walls of CASA, Benji had learned that ghosts like them moved with a lot more freedom and autonomy than some of the other spirits in purgatory.

  “Ghosts who are more sensitive to Impressions are called Guides,” Agnes continued.

  “Like Karin,” Benji murmured.

  She nodded. “Like Patrick as well.”

  Shock flooded through Benji, cool and unpleasant down his spine and then settling as heavy as a brick in his stomach. He’d thought Patrick was the same as him, just a ghost biding his time until the way out was shown to him. Was Patrick stuck here, like Karin and Agnes? Was that why he was so bitter and aloof?

  It made sense, though. Benji could barely hear the Impressions. Most of the time their voices were whispers, fading in and out like a badly tuned radio. He could see them more often than not, but thinking back, he’d always been with Patrick when they appeared. And Patrick had always helped them.