I held my hand just over his, almost but not quite touching it. I knew that he had seen things, had done things, in Brazil that haunted him still. We did not speak of them, but Stoker, more than anyone I had ever known, walked with ghosts. “Will you talk about it?” “Someday,” he told me. “I have never spoken of it. But someday I might, and if I do, you may be certain it will be with you.”
