Alarm persists in the wrinkle of Walker’s brow, mitigated only somewhat by interest. Someone less ridiculous might take the word “ghost” for a metaphor, even with sprinklings of eternity.

But William pushes to his feet, heat under pressure funneled into something keener.

Within the confines of this very professional office in his very professional suit, he circles his desk to take a closer look at James Patrick March the ghost. He moves like he casts a longer shadow than he does -- wary as he is deliberate, with his cigarette pinched between his fingers. Not fearful so much as he is cautious, the way a bony old tiger might circle a porcupine.

“You’re awfully corporeal,” he says, drawling long on his enunciation. “For a ghost.”