Seven
I leaned against the hood of my car in the visitor lot of the prison, tracking every person who moved through the side door. Not that Kayla would be hard to spot if she were corporeal with her punk-rock look, but my nerves were wound tight. I didn’t want to miss her. Finally, after watching nearly two dozen people come and go, the door opened and a black-clad young woman with a purple pixie cut emerged.
“How is he?” I called, hoping to draw her attention.
She turned at the sound of my voice and a look of surprise washed over her face. I was clearly not who she had expected to see. Kayla strode toward me, her hands in the pockets of her skirt. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you. Please get in,” I replied and gestured to the passenger seat.
She turned translucent, passing
