THE MAN STANDING IN THE kitchen had not been dead long. He had newbie written all over him. For starters, color clung to him; his hooded sweatshirt was such a vivid red, it looked tangible—as though I could reach out and pinch it between my fingers. I had noticed over the years that the longer ghosts hang around, refusing to move on, the more they resemble black and white copies of themselves. This man looked fresh. Alive. Had it not been for the telling chill that crept down