He loves the city when it’s sleeping, when all the lights are off and if you listen you can hear the Pacific wearing the continent away. He hears the bus coming. It sounds like a ghost moving towards him. He closes his eyes, breathes in the fog.

One night, way back in Honduras, ghosts had moved past him. A whole pack of them, children, moaning and banging empty plates on locked doors.

“What’s that?” he asked. His girlfriend shivered next to him, pulled herself closer to him.

“Shh,” she said. “Ghosts. If they hear us, they’ll never leave us alone.”

With a hiss the bus doors open and he gets on. The driver slumps over the wheel like he’s asleep, but when Dave sits, the doors close and the bus lurches forward.