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Ever heard the old maxim, that dead people can’t talk? Well, I won't disagree with you.

But let's just assume I'm not dead. That the guy lying on the floor of what I would in any other situation have called an excellently built treehouse is merely... pretending to be dead. Yes, there is a reason for this seemingly outrageous pretension.


I want to see how these two boys play out whatever they have planned.

One of them, the lankier of the two, looks downright petrified. You can tell by the way he is trembling, the conspicuous shake in his voice, and the unmistakable coat of sweat on his forehead (that too, on a day where it hasn't even touched 25 degrees). The other boy looks moderately composed. The frown on his face is indicative of confusion, than frustration or fear. Either he is handling himself exceptionally well or he hasn't gotten his head around what is happening. 

"What do we do, Mompy?" Lanky Boy asks, the shake in his voice pronounced.

"Is he dead?" Composed Boy, who I'm assuming is Mompy, says.

"I... I don't know," Lanky Boy says.

"Well, check!" Composed Boy almost screams.

Composed Boy fishes a pack of Marlboro from his pants pocket. Lanky Boy looks at him, and, even in his distressed state, you can see it's a look of incredulity. Composed Boy shrugs, and lights one up; takes a deep drag, keeps the smoke in him longer than you would expect from a kid, and lets it out. Something tells me he has been smoking for a long time. 

Lanky Boy, complying with Composed Boy's instructions, bends to come near me, and...

Wait, did I just see someone through the window? Yes, I think I detect a movement. Looks strangely like...

I've never seen him before; and, were I alive, I wouldn't know him. But being dead (or, for the sake of this documentary, pretending to be) allows you certain privileges. Knowing people you don't know is one of them.

In the recesses of my mind, a voice tells me it’s someone’s dad.

Did either of their  dads sneak up here?

The cigarette dangling between Composed Boy’s lips is quivering now. He is clearly afraid. Afraid of the really bad news that Lanky Boy has brought with him.

Clearly, this is not how Composed Boy imagined spending a Saturday afternoon. Something tells me he had his girl coming over for a little rendezvous; which is just a fancy term for, well, you know what. But then Lanky Boy spoiled the plan.

And here the two of them are.

He pulls in a drag, for a second feeling his nerves calming, before exhaling a plume of smoke.

“Mompy!” Lanky Boy says.

He sounds frustrated, but you can tell he is secretly glad Composed Boy is with him.

As a matter of fact, as my dead senses can sense, there is something more. Lanky Boy admires, maybe even worships, Composed Boy.

He is not just glad Composed Boy is with him. He is beyond happy that the other two aren’t.

I should say here that I don’t know who “the other two” are. Heck, I don’t even know Composed Boy or Lanky Boy. One minute, I was crossing the street. And, the next, here I was; lying in a treehouse in the middle of someone’s backyard, sharing it with two boys scared out of their wits wondering what their next plan of action should be.


“Maybe we should…” Lanky Boy begins. I know what he is thinking, and I also know he won’t say it aloud. What he means to say should send a shiver down my spine, but even dead people like me know it can’t harm me any more than the state, or the lack thereof, I already am in.

Composed Boy looks up at Lanky Boy. “We should what?”

Another flicker of movement in that square window. Because my peripheral vision detects it, and I’m obviously not able to turn my head, an objective mind would say there is no way I can be absolutely sure who it is. But my newly acquired telepathic nature, which feels almost like a superpower if you ask me, knows.

Here I am, under everyone’s nose and yet invisible. Did I just render the Invisibility Cloak useless?

Someone’s dad – maybe either of theirs, maybe not – has seen us.

If he is indeed either of theirs, the boys may not get the punishment they should.


“Did he just move?” Composed Boy said.

“What? Who moved?” Lanky Boy replied.

“Who else is here other than the two of us, dimwit?” Composed Boy said in return.

Did I move? Are they talking about me? I thought I was dead. Surely my thoughts aren’t, which is allowing me to narrate this documentary.

“Yes, he did!” Composed Boy said. “Bandem, look! He moved again!”

Oh, Composed Boy is definitely hallucinating. I want to scream in his face and tell him I’m dead. But the dead can’t converse. They can talk like I am, something I didn’t know before today, but I suppose that is pretty much it.

A cry of happiness escapes Lanky Boy. He screams. “Yes, yes! I see it!”

What are they even saying? What are they even seeing? Am I not…

Wait. I feel… a kind of sensation in my leg. It’s… yes, it’s moving.

And then the other leg moves.

I can feel my heart beating, feel the blood coursing through my vessels.

Am I being brought back to life?

As happy as I should feel, a more pressing question burns through my mind…

Will I lose my telepathic powers now?

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