What to do next, then? Who might want to talk with her about dead girls, who might want to climb down into the darkness with her?
The answer, when it comes, seems obvious. There must be other finders of the dead out there. She just needs to work out how to find them. Heading to the nearest coffee shop, carrying her idea carefully, as if it might break, Ruby settles on a high stool at the window and connects her laptop to the free wi-fi. An over-size latte is soon set down in front of her. The comfort of coffee, she thinks, before squeezing her eyes shut, willing inspiration to come.
‘Finding a dead body’ might be a good place to start.
She carefully types these words into the search bar on her laptop, holds her breath as the results appear. This feels like the beginning of something, that whisper from another room getting louder, but the first few search results are all about something called Death Clean-ups, an apparently burgeoning biohazard industry Ruby has never heard of. These grim advertorials for wiping crime scenes clean are followed by list after list of ‘I found a dead body!’ stories, blog posts decorated with words like gruesome and horrifying and nightmare. Ruby gives this content a cursory glance only; she is not looking for titillation.
Finally, three quarters down the page, a headline jumps out at her.
PTSD: When the body gets stuck in fight or flight mode.
So that you don’t, you know, get stuck. Wasn’t this the language Officer Jennings used outside the precinct? This isn’t exactly what she had in mind, but she clicks on the link anyway, letting her breath out slowly as the article loads.
Her coffee is cold by the time she finishes reading. Here, laid out by a well-known doctor from Boston, is the clearest explanation for what trauma does to a person, to their mind and body. The flashbacks, the constant visions of the rain and the river, all the obsessive thoughts swirling around. The way she keeps dreaming about dead girls. Not to mention her sudden paranoia, the idea that any man she encounters might be capable of murder. It’s all explained by the doctor. This hypervigilance, he says, is a mark of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. And danger only has to be perceived, he asserts, for PTSD to be triggered. Encountering a dead body is actually right there on his list. A familiar song about the wonders of New York croons over the cafe’s speakers as Ruby ponders this new information, wonders what to do with what feels, suddenly, like a key in her hand.
And then she remembers her earlier plan. To seek out other finders of the dead. Perhaps this is where they are hidden. Fingers typing fast this time, Ruby is astounded by the number of results that come up for her now, pages and pages of them. New York is apparently teeming with support groups for people in trauma. Feeling—oddly—like she is being guided, Ruby clicks on the link for a Manhattan meet-up offering support and friendship for people with PTSD, including those with ‘non-traditional’ causes.
Discovering a murder victim. Non-traditional? Ruby reads on.
The meet-up brief describes sessions that include individual sharing （optional） and group discussions: We offer a place of non-judgement, where your safety is the priority. No formal diagnosis of PTSD is required to join. The group meets every two weeks, at a Midtown East location. Address to be shared upon RSVP.
The registration form is short. Ruby fills it out and hits the send button before she has time to think better of it. Almost immediately, an email dings through with a generic welcome note from someone named Larry. Congratulations! Know it takes courage to make the first step in your healing process. You should be proud of yourself …
Attached to the welcome email is a list of dates, locations and times for the group’s spring sessions: the next meeting is set for Thursday, four days from now. Ruby barely even asks her big sister for advice, has never considered seeing a therapist. Is she really going to do this?
Over the speakers, a man is still crooning about New York; as he sings about brand-new starts, the lyric sounds out across the cafe, lands right next to her, and the hairs on Ruby’s arms bristle. There is suddenly no question. She will go to this meet-up. She will seek out people who understand. What is the worst that could happen? If she goes the wrong way, she’ll find what she is looking for, eventually. Because you can find anything in New York, right?
Even a dead body, she thinks, alarmed to discover that, for once, this starkest of truths almost makes her laugh.
When I started showing up in her dreams it was an accident, by the way. There isn’t exactly a difference between awake and asleep for me these days. She’s the one who changes when her eyes are closed, she’s the one who becomes more open. Remembering me standing next to her in Riverside Park, understanding that I followed her home—these are things she forgets in the daylight, and I didn’t know there was a way I could remind her of them. Until it happened.