The ghost was back again. Every day in the early evening, just for an hour.
“Listen!” the ghost said cheerfully.
Rat-a-tat-tat. Rat-a-tat-tat. Rat-a-tat-tat.
Warren tried to work around it, tried to do the crossword puzzle in the newspaper, tried to wash the dishes, tried to weed the flowerbed. He could hear it wherever he went in and around his house.
“Listen!” the ghost said cheerfully.
Rat-a-tat-tat. Rat-a-tat-tat. Rat-a-tat-tat.
Warren knew this ghost. For years before the ghost appeared Warren thought of him every day. He saw this ghost in every little face in a store or on a playground. This ghost flashed before his eyes with every squeal of brakes.
And with every child crossing a street alone.
“Listen!” the ghost said cheerfully.
Rat-a-tat-tat. Rat-a-tat-tat. Rat-a-tat-tat.
He tried talking to the ghost again.
“Max, I don’t know what you want. I don’t know how to help you. If there’s something you need from me, just tell me. I’ll do whatever I can, son.”
The ghost looked straight at Warren.
“Listen!” the ghost said cheerfully.
Rat-a-tat-tat. Rat-a-tat-tat. Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-rolllll-tat.
“Six o’clock,” Warren said. “Of course.” He sighed quietly, and sat down in front of the ghost and its snare drum.
“I’m listening, Max,” Warren said, smiling gently. “You’re getting better. Keep practicing.”
The ghost grinned and rat-a-tat-tatted on.
