Hugo stepped forward, and though Wallace couldn’t see it, he knew Hugo grabbed the hook in his own chest, pulling it out with a grunt. The air in the tea shop grew hot as he pressed the hook into the Husk. She gagged as her skin filled with the colors of life. She bent over, clutching her sides as the black of her teeth turned to white.
“Wh-aaat,” the woman said. “Wha-aaaat is … this? What. Is happening?”
“You’re safe,” Hugo said. He glanced at Wallace who arched an eyebrow, a pointed look at Hugo’s chest. Hugo nodded, and Wallace breathed a sigh of relief. Another hook had appeared in Hugo’s chest, connecting him to the woman. It’d worked. “I’ve got you. Can you tell me your name?”
“Adriana,” she whispered.
The Manager muttered through a mouthful of scone.
Since that day, they’d helped a dozen more Husks. Sometimes it was Mei. Other times, it was Wallace. There were days when they’d leave to find the Husks themselves, and others when the Husks would appear on the road leading to the tea shop, surrounded by hoofprints in the dirt. Some were harder than others. One had been a Husk for close to two hundred years and didn’t speak English. They’d managed to help him by the skin of their teeth, but Wallace knew that it would only get easier from there. They’d do what they could for all who came to them.
The people of the town were curious about this new addition to Charon’s Crossing. It didn’t take long for rumors to spread about Wallace and his relationship with Hugo. People came in to gawk at him. The older women cooed, the younger women seemed disappointed that Hugo was off the market （as did a few of the men, much to Wallace’s complicated glee）， and it wasn’t long before the newness of it all faded and Wallace became yet another fixture of the town. They waved at him when they saw him on the sidewalk or in the grocery store. He always waved back.
Wallace Price became Wallace Reid. At least, that’s what his new ID and Social Security card said. Mei told him not to ask too many questions when she’d handed them to him after returning from a three-day trip to visit her mother, which she said had gone better than she expected. “Mom knows people,” she said, lips quirking. “She picked out the last name for you. Showed her a couple of pictures of you, and she told me to tell you the surname is because you’re thin as a reed, and that you need to eat more.”
“I’ll write her a thank-you note,” Wallace said, distracted as he brushed a finger over his new name.
“Good. She’s expecting you to.”
Desdemona Tripplethorne returned to the tea shop, telling them she wanted to see the new employee at Charon’s Crossing for herself. Squat Man and Thin Man crowded behind her, staring at Wallace. Desdemona studied him as he fidgeted. Finally, her brow furrowed, and she said, “Have … have we met? I swear I know you from somewhere.”
“No,” Wallace said. “How could we have? I’ve never been here before.”
“I suppose you’re right,” she said slowly. She shook her head. “My name is Desdemona Tripplethorne, I’m sure you’ve heard of me. I’m a clairvoyant—”
Mei coughed. It sounded strangely like bullshit.
Desdemona ignored her. “—and I come here from time to time to speak to the spirits that haunt this place. I know how it sounds. But there is more to the world than you could possibly know.”
“Is there?” Wallace asked. “How do you know?”
She tapped the side of her head. “I have a gift.”
She left an hour later, disappointed when the planchette on her Ouija board and the feather quill hadn’t moved even a millimeter. She would be back, she announced grandly before leaving the tea shop in a swirl of self-entitlement, Thin Man and Squat Man hurrying after her.
It went on, life did, ever forward. Good days, the not-so-good days, the days when he wondered how he could stand being surrounded by death for much longer. It hit Hugo too; though few and far between, he still had panic attacks, days when his breath would catch in his chest, lungs constricting. Wallace never tried to force him through the attacks, just sat on the back deck with him, tap, tap, tapping, Apollo alert at Hugo’s feet. When Hugo recovered, breaths slow and deep, Wallace whispered, “All right?”
“I will be,” Hugo said, taking Wallace’s hand in his own.
It wasn’t always Husks. Spirits still came to them, spirits who needed someone like Hugo as their ferryman. Often, they were angry and destructive, bitter and cold. Some of them stayed for weeks, ranting and raving about how they didn’t want to be dead, that they didn’t want to be trapped here, they were going to leave, and nothing was going to stop them, pulling at the cables extending from their chests to Hugo’s, threatening to remove the hook that kept them grounded.
They didn’t.
They always stayed.
They listened.
They learned.
They understood, after a time. Some just took longer than others.
But that was okay.
Each of them found their way to the door, and to what came after.
After all, Charon’s Crossing was nothing but a way station.
At least for the dead.
It was the living who found their roots growing deep in the earth. Tea plants, Hugo had once told Wallace, required patience. You had to put in the time and have patience.
Which is why, on a summer evening, when Nelson said, “I think it’s time,” Wallace knew what he meant.
But any reply he had dried up in his throat when he saw who stood before him.
Gone was the elderly man leaning on a cane.
In his place stood a much younger man, back straight, hands clasped behind him as he looked out the window, cane gone as if it’d never been there at all. Wallace recognized him immediately. He’d seen this very man in many of the photographs hanging on the walls of the tea shop and in Hugo’s room, mostly in black and white or grainy color.
“Nelson?” he whispered.
Nelson turned his head and smiled. His wrinkles were gone, replaced by the smooth skin of someone far younger. His eyes were twinkling. He was bigger, stronger. His hair sat in a black Afro on his head, much like his grandson’s. Decades had melted away until before Wallace stood a man who looked as young as Hugo. What had Nelson said?
It’s simple, really. I like being old.
“You stayed as you were because it’s how Hugo knew you when you were alive,” Wallace said hoarsely.
“Yes,” Nelson said. “I did. And I’d do it all over again if I had to, but I think it’s time for what I want. And Wallace, I want this.”
Wallace wiped his tears away. “You’re sure.”
He looked back out the window. “I am.”
* * *
Mei made them tea as the rest gathered in the darkened tea shop, moonlight bathing the forest around them. Hugo sat in a chair, bandana in his lap （black with little yellow ducks）， looking around the tea shop with a quiet smile on his face.
Mei brought the tea tray out, setting it on the table. The scent of chai filled the room, thick and heady. Hugo poured tea for each of them, the cups filled to the brim. He handed them each a cup, setting a bowl down on the floor for Apollo, who began to lap at the liquid frantically. Wallace couldn’t bring himself to drink from his own cup, worried his hands would shake too much.