“You’re not dead. I promise. I’m really here,” the pony says. “I love you so much.” “I love you too.” I smile at him. He’s so pretty. I want to draw him, but apparently heaven doesn’t supply canvases. Or paint. It’s a shame, because I could have been really happy here with my collection of plushies and my Callan pony. “I was so afraid to lose you”—his voice cracks—“that I pushed you away. These past six months have been hell. And tonight... I can’t live without you, Hayley.” “Hush, pretty pony.” I tug him down beside me, and he arranges his body carefully around mine. His rough fingers stroke
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