It was a vague delight to realize we were not alone. We had a party in the desert with the people that we found. Inert, long-buried, the corpses were stiff socially, and unpleasant to look at. But they would do. It was something we could never have done when we were alive. As ghosts, though, the offense seemed minor. A sheriff arrived in a buggy, the historical kind. He had two horses, which is more horses than either of us had ever seen. You’re murderers explained the sheriff, locking us into the back of the buggy. Or perverts. His men were piling and arranging the corpses. One was crying, another was vomiting, and another was performing his job like a professional. Pulling against the bracelets I explained that we were dead, we’d found the bodies in the sand and merely positioned them. I explained that we were already undergoing punishment for our real crimes, wandering the earth without a home or any kind of purpose. The sheriff listened patiently and pet his horses and fed them from a cloth sack. There was something familiar about him. Beneath his hat, it was obvious he was wearing a wig. When he smiled, his teeth sank slightly and you could tell they were false. He had a waddle to his walk, like his shoes were stuffed, and his pants far too wide and loose and hanging from him. His cheek-sweat teared up and curled the crisp edges of his moustache.