Postcards from a Dead Girl by Kirk Farber Read Free Book Online Page B

lot.”
    â€œSorry.”
    â€œHe stares at me sometimes like he’s waiting for something.”
    â€œHe likes it when you talk to him.”
    â€œDo you ever give him treats?”
    â€œSometimes. I give him people food sometimes.”
    â€œThat’s terrible for dogs, you know. It’s bad for their hearts.”
    â€œI know.”
    â€œHave you taken him to the vet for his annual? You should make sure he’s got all his shots.”
    â€œYeah, I gotta do that.”
    Natalie is silent for a moment, as if she’s working something out in her head. “When did you get this dog again? I don’t remember when you got the dog.” The way she asks me, it sounds like she already knows the answer, like she’s not concerned about the shots but something else.
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œNo?”
    I think about it for a moment. “He’s been with me for a while, I don’t know the exact date.”
    â€œWell that’s okay if you can’t remember.”
    â€œDid you hear back from the CAT-scan people yet?” I ask.
    â€œThey’ll call you soon. Are you still feeling funny?”
    â€œNo change, really.”
    â€œHm.”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œNo, that noise you made. Hm. You said hm . Why’d you say that?”
    â€œIt was a nothing noise. It meant nothing.”
    â€œAre you sure?”
    â€œI’m sure,” she says.
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œAre you sure you’re not in a tunnel?”
    â€œNo tunnel. Listen, I’ll be home soon. I’ll call you later. Say hi to Zero for me.”
    I quickly hang up before she can say anything because I don’t like the six-stage good-byes: talk to you soon, have a good night,take it easy, good night, bye, good-bye. A Buddhist friend of mine from college never said good-bye to anyone because he believed that saying it meant saying good-bye to their spirit. He was always ending phone conversations abruptly or leaving unexpectedly. You only say good-bye when someone dies, he told me, so their spirit can leave and be at peace.

chapter 20
    My feet are tired and my body achy from all the walking in this cooler, damp weather. The hotel’s front lobby isn’t much warmer, and neither is the woman behind the front desk, although she is terribly apologetic.
    â€œSorry?” she says, or asks, I’m not sure which. She’s a short little pear of a thing, with three perfect wrinkle lines running parallel across her forehead. “Sorry?” she says again, tilting her head at strange angles toward me. I realize I’m not speaking loud enough, and that’s her way of asking me to increase my volume.
    â€œIf I wanted to send a postcard to someone,” I ask, louder, “how would I do that?”
    â€œYou can leave it right here with us at the front desk,” she says, and smiles. The three lines smooth away, revealing a broad, velvety forehead. Her skin is like some exotic fruit, ready to be eaten. I think I’m hungry from all my exercise.
    â€œLeave it right here?” I ask.
    â€œYes, that’s correct, sir. We take the post out twice daily.”
    Tucked away on the back counter is a basket filled with letters. They look like they’ve been there awhile. “So where does it go from here?”
    â€œSorry?”
    â€œWhere,” I say even louder, “does it go from here?”
    â€œI can hear you, sir, I just don’t understand your question.”
    â€œI mean, does it go to a post office?”
    Her smile remains constant, her voice pleasant and professional. I really like her demeanor. She reminds me of Gerald, the postmaster back home.
    â€œRight, sir, it goes through the Royal Mail.”
    The Royal Mail. That sounds serious. Trustworthy. A place to get answers. “And where would I find a Royal Mail office?”
    The three little lines on her forehead return, darker than