I stared at the old man, waiting for the punchline. When it didn't come, I slowly shifted my gaze to Okada, fully expecting him to laugh or realize we were officially in a surreal comedy sketch.
But the old man's face didn't crack. He wasn't smiling. If anything, the color had completely drained from his weathered skin, leaving him looking frail and deeply, genuinely terrified. He clutched the edges of his wooden kiosk so tightly his knuckles turned a chalky white.
"Ghosts," Okada repeated, rolling the word around in his mouth like a piece of cheap, stale gum. He let out a dry, humorless chuckle. "Right. And I suppose the ghosts also filed the property tax returns? Or are they just squatting there for the free rent?"
