The dead always watched from their front row seats, lemon slices drifting in their cool drinks. They’d set down their binoculars and wipe their foreheads, pink air pressing around them like cotton candy. One would say this weather smells like blood and the rest nodded, crossed their legs, and picked up their paper fans. Not one of those dead was a stranger to me. Some days I felt them in the baby’s room among wallpaper clouds, watching him sleep. Some days I felt only their eyes as I buckled that squirming thing into his carseat: if I could just drive somewhere, I might accomplish something. With them watching me when the baby wailed, inconsolable, I could set him back in his crib and walk away.