Chapter 4: Halfway There

Sleep didn’t take me back to rest. It took me somewhere else…

Sleep came fast — and so did the somewhere-else.

She woke to the smell of coffee and the faint whine of Zee, though neither belonged. The room wasn’t hers; the walls were too pale, the light too golden, like someone had tried to rebuild her life from a Polaroid and missed a few details.

She pushed herself upright, surprised by the absence of pain — no tug of bandages, no sharp catch in her chest. Outside the window, the ocean shimmered. Impossible. She didn’t live close enough to see the ocean.

Zee padded over, tail wagging slowly, like she was in on the secret.

“Am I dead again?” she asked her.

Zee sneezed dramatically.

Then, from the hallway:

“You’re not dead. You’re in Jersey. Same thing, different branding.”

She turned.

Kevin stood in the doorway with a cup of coffee and a banana that looked suspiciously like it had been used as a phone. He was older than she remembered. Or maybe just more real.

“You’re back,” she said.

“You make it sound like I’m a rash.”

“I’m not convinced you’re not.”

“Fair.”

She stood — or thought she did. Her legs moved like they were underwater.

“Where are we?”

Kevin sipped his coffee. “Somewhere in between. Remember ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’? Don’t worry — it’s not permanent. Think of it as a reboot. You needed a little more time.”

“Time for what? Is Bon Jovi going to show up next?”

He shrugged. “To remember. Or to forget. You always mix those two up. And if he shows up, he’s probably singing ‘Bad Medicine.’”

She looked around. The living room was a distorted version of her childhood home — wallpaper too new, furniture slightly off, a record player spinning something vaguely Irish and way too cheerful.

“Is this… a memory?”

Kevin pulled the curtain aside. “It’s whatever you need it to be. Not all ghosts come from the past.”

“Are you a ghost?”

“Define ghost.”

“You’re avoiding my question.”

“You’re avoiding the answer.”

She sank into the couch. Zee jumped beside her like this was completely normal.

Kevin leaned on the doorframe. “You keep trying to make sense of everything. Dad’s silence. June’s Fox News obsession. Paul’s dementia. The fact you never got to name me.”

Her breath hitched. “So you’re saying you’re—?”

“I’m saying maybe I’m what you lost. Or what you never had. Or maybe I’m just a very elaborate fever dream with great cheekbones.”

She laughed — a sound that came out more like a sob.

Kevin sat beside her. “You don’t have to choose which version is true. You just have to listen.”

“To what?”

“To the part of you that already knows.”

Outside, a car horn honked — long, familiar.

Someone yelled, “Move your damn Honda!”

Kevin stood. “That’s your exit cue. John must be visiting.”

“Wait,” she said. “Don’t go.”

He kissed her forehead. “I’m not going anywhere. You just have to remember where to look.”

And then she was alone.

Back in her bed. Or her real bed. Or whatever counted as real today. Zee curled at her feet. The coffee smell vanished.

Kara called from the kitchen:

“You want pancakes, or should I just toss them to Zee and save us both the effort?”

She didn’t answer right away.

Because somewhere between dream and daylight, Kevin had left a banana on her nightstand.

And “Wanted Dead or Alive” was playing in the other room.