“Ash?” a voice said. I straightened my spine. I’d know that voice anywhere. If I had slipped into a coma, it would wake me up. If I was six feet under, I’d dig myself out of the grave just to be closer to it, which was dramatic and startling and tragic and stupid. But it was true. “It’s just me out here,” he said. “The bar’s cleared out.” I’ll love you until we’re dust in the wind, Camille Ashwood. “I’m here, Cam.”
