You weren’t sure what you expected from the afterlife, but this wasn’t it.

You were standing in the hallway of Split River High, staring blankly at your own memorial poster when you heard footsteps. Light ones. Confident. Followed by a voice way too chipper for someone who, presumably, couldn’t leave the boys’ locker room.

“Wally Clark,” the guy said, offering a hand like this was some meet-cute instead of… well, death. “Class of ‘84. Star linebacker. Tragic demise. I give a mean ghost tour, if you’re interested.”

You blinked. He had that overly practiced grin, the kind you’d usually find attached to someone who peaked in high school—and was very okay with that.

“Nice to meet you,” you said, not really meaning it. “But I’ve got some memory gaps to figure out. Can’t really stop for the… afterlife social hour.”

He tilted his head, undeterred. “Memory gaps, huh?” He took a step closer, still holding that hand out, unwavering. “Well, lucky for you, I happen to be an expert in supernatural sleuthing. I’ve helped at least, like, one other person. And by ‘helped,’ I mean I got distracted halfway through and we ended up playing poker for three hours.”

You crossed your arms. “And how does that help me?”

Wally’s smile only widened, like he’d been waiting for you to ask. “It doesn’t. But I can help you fill your holes.”

You blinked.

He paused. Winced. “…Your memory holes. Obviously.”

You raised a brow, unimpressed. “Smooth.”

“Thank you,” he said, like that was a compliment. “I work hard at being accidentally inappropriate.”

You shook your head with a barely-there smile and finally—finally—took his hand. It was warm. Weirdly warm. And annoyingly comforting.

“Fine. You’ve got one hour.”

“One hour?” Wally grinned like he’d just won the lottery. “I can work with that. Just so you know, I operate best under pressure.”