Broken Banjo

            Miles and Harold stood with their mouths wide open. Harold’s mouth seemed to open into a dark, soulless night, while Miles mouth was full of cheese.

            “It’s also rude to stare with your mouths wide open,” Miss Kitty said. “Swallow the cheese, Miles, before you choke.”

            “You know I’m a ghost,” Harold said.

            “Elementary, my dear Harold,” Miss Kitty said. “Mysterious ailment, can’t be seen or heard, rocking chairs rocking with nobody sitting in them—must be a ghost in the house.”

            “I told you she was exceptional,” Miles squeaked after he swallowed his chunk of cheese.

            “You can see and hear me,” Harold said, crimson tears forming in his empty eye sockets.

            “Well, you are rather shadowy, and your voice sounds more like a whisper, a wisp of wind, an annoying frequency in the back of my mind. But yes, right now, I can sense you.”

            Miles washed his hands, sitting on his haunches. “Ask her about the banjo,” Miles said.

            “Oh, Miles," Harold practically shouted, "this is a monumental occasion. How can you prattle on about the banjo?”

            “The banjo?” Miss Kitty asked.

            “Miles wants to know about the banjo in your hand,” Harold said. “For your information, Miles, the banjo belonged to my grandfather, Harold the first. He gave it to me, and I played it until Lilith accidentally stepped on the head.

            “Sometimes,” Miss Kitty said, “ghosts gather strength from objects that belong to them. Perhaps this banjo will help you solidify.”

            “Harold,” Miles said, “ask her if she knows any luthiers.”

            “Miles,” Harold shouted, “stop interrupting our conversation.”

            “I know a luthier,” Miss Kitty said, “in Sandpoint. Fiddlin` Red. He's pretty amazing, and can repair just about anything. I bet he could repair that banjo.”

            “Bob’s your uncle,” said Miles.