Archive of Our Own

it started small. johanssen noticed first, one mid-november morning, a month or two after she and beck moved into their bright blue house that overlooked the sea. she woke up and made herself some coffee and went to take a seat at the dining room table, but stopped as soon as she spotted the whoopee cushion in her chair. she approached beck, but he had no idea how it'd happened, and he swore up and down he hadn't done it.

the next morning, she woke up and the cups had moved from their designated shelf to the shelf where she kept her snacks. she searched all over for her snacks and found them stashed underneath the desk in her office. she woke beck up and asked him if he'd done it, and again, he swore he hadn't.

she mulled it over for the rest of the day. maybe she’d moved the snacks and simply forgotten? but, no, she couldn't have forgotten that she’d moved an entire shelf of snacks. maybe she was sleepwalking? she decided to set up a camera in the dining room overnight.

the next morning, she woke up and found the camera on her chest. turned off. she checked it, but whatever video she'd taken had been erased. same the following night. she tried to hide it, but that didn't work either, so she gave up.

these little occurrences continued. tables overturned, supplies moved. elusively timed inconveniences that they couldn’t quite explain. johanssen didn't understand them, but they weren't exactly harmful or damaging, so she didn't feel the need to do anything about it just yet. beck called her one afternoon while she was at work. he told her every single framed picture they owned had been taken off the walls and piled up, with one on top. one of the ares iii crew. johanssen told him to just clean it up, they'd figure it out later.

this became part of their routine. in the mornings they’d wake up, then go out and inspect to see what’d been messed with overnight. they grew accustomed to it, whatever it was. they even started to call it 'our ghost', playfully, not because they actually believed that’s what it was (although they both had their suspicions). beck would call johanssen at work and she'd ask, "what's our ghost done this time?" and he'd tell her something like, "it poured cereal out all over the kitchen floor," or, "it hid all my underwear and i have absolutely no idea where it is."

over time, these occurrences became bigger in nature. they weren’t necessarily more frightening or dangerous, but they were definitely bigger, like whatever it was was upping its game. one day, they came home from a nice dinner and the furniture in their dining room and the furniture in their living room had switched places. another morning, johanssen woke up and there was a huge breakfast already prepared in the kitchen. eggs, bagels, bacon, waffles. every breakfast item she had in her house had been made and laid out, buffet-style.

johanssen told lewis about it over the phone one afternoon, after waking from a nap to find a total of 347 new photos in her camera roll, including pictures of the garden in their backyard, several of her sock drawer, and a snap of a picture hanging on their wall, of the crew.

lewis laughed and said, "hey, maybe it's mark." she said this jokingly, of course, but the words hit johanssen hard. lewis could probably tell, because johanssen grew quiet. she added hastily, "no. nevermind. forget i said that. it's probably nothing."

"yeah," johanssen muttered. "probably nothing."

in july, martinez came to visit for a weekend. he stayed in their guest room. he woke up sunday morning with a mustache and a unibrow drawn on his face in sharpie.

"beck! johanssen!" he yelled. they ran in, took one look at him, then cracked up laughing. "which one of you assholes-"

"it wasn't us!" beck held up his hands, smirking. "it was the ghost."

martinez shook his head and scrubbed furiously at his face with a soapy rag. "i hate you both."

a few months later, they got a dog. named her dixie. for a few days, nothing happened. then, in the middle of the night, they woke to the sound of barking. they found dixie lying on the couch, and they remembered turning the tv off before going to bed but it was on. dixie barked and barked, and beck hushed her while johanssen looked up at the screen. beverly hills chihuahua was on.

it took a few hours to calm dixie down. they took her outside, let her roam around the backyard. johanssen came back in to grab a water, and noticed the movie had changed. she checked the information, and found it was a movie called "sorry", circa 2002. she looked around and laughed. "you're ridiculous," she said, to whatever, whoever, it was, before going back outside.

for a few weeks, dixie continued to become distrssed in the middle of the night, barking and whimpering and clawing. the vet had no explanation, only told them that she was as healthy as could be and whatever it was that had her so upset wasn’t causing her any harm. johanssen and beck got very little sleep during those few weeks, and johanssen found herself nodding off at her desk during office hours.

one of her work friends, catie, asked her why she was so tired, one day over lunch.

johanssen sighed. “dixie’s been barking. loudly. every night.”

“oh,” catie said. “any idea why?”

johanssen shook her head, and catie leaned forward to whisper, “you think it’s that ghost you were telling me about?”

johanssen made a face. “i shouldn’t have told you about that. and it’s… i’m not sure what it is. might not be a ghost. besides, what’s it have to do with my dog?”

“dogs supposedly have, like, a sixth sense when it comes to the supernatural,” catie said, matter-of-factly. “and don’t tell me it’s not a ghost. how else would you explain everything that’s happened?”

johanssen stared.

a few weeks later, they decided to go visit vogel in germany. they heard there'd be a bad storm while they were gone, but they figured it wouldn’t last any longer than a day, and it wouldn't cause too much damage. by the time they got to germany, though, the storm had been upgraded to tropical, and by the next day, it'd reached hurricane-level winds. they couldn't fly in, so they hoped and prayed that the young girl they'd hired to check in on dixie twice a day had gotten her to safety.

they called the girl and asked if she'd managed to save their dog, and the girl said she hadn't had time to go by before the storm hit. they assumed they'd lost dixie, to the storm, and they tried not to think about the fact that they'd lost yet another to a storm, while they were, again, too powerless to help.

they flew home early and, against all odds, found dixie curled up in the attic. she had a broken leg- something must've fallen on it during the storm. much of the first floor had been destroyed by the winds and heavy rain, so if she'd stayed downstairs, she wouldn't have made it. and there's also no way, given the state of her leg, that she climbed the stairs herself. she had help. beck looked around and pointed out the sack of food that they had definitely left downstairs, as well as the blankets from their bed wadded up in a little nest in the corner, where dixie was sleeping. johanssen went downstairs and took a deep breath. "thank you,” she whispered. there was no response. the house was quiet and still and she leaned back and closed her eyes. "thank you," she said again. this time, her hand pulsed with a warmth unlike any she'd ever felt. calming and distant yet somehow reminiscent of some long ago memory. she opened her eyes and it was gone as soon as it came.

that night, after taking dixie to the vet and cleaning up what little they could, they got a hotel room and decided to finish up the rest later, beck looked over at her from the bathroom while he was brushing his teeth and said, voice garbled, "think it was our ghost?"

she rolled over and propped herself up on her elbows. she considered his question, then answered quietly, "yeah. i do."

he spat into the sink and leaned against the doorframe. "me too," he murmured. "it's kinda weird, y'know? i forget, sometimes, just how weird it is. i mentioned it in passing a few weeks ago at work and they all stared at me like i was crazy."

johanssen gave him a half-smile. "do you think it's, like, an actual ghost? or... i don't know."

beck ran a hand through his hair and turned off the bathroom light. he sat down on the other side of the bed and said, "i'm a science guy. always have been. but science doesn't explain everything, and there- there comes a point when science is as improbable an explanation as something fantastical. what i'm saying is... yes. i think we may just have an actual ghost on our hands. what about you?"

johanssen blinked. "i guess... i guess i do."

beck smiled and kissed her forehead, lightly, before turning off his bedside lamp and pulling the blankets up to his chin.

johanssen fell asleep, the words 'who do you think it is' left unspoken, dying on her tongue.

the next morning, they drove back to their house, and found that someone had already gotten to work cleaning. the debris had been cleaned from the floor and piled on the front porch, and the items of furniture that weren’t completely destroyed had been reassembled and put back where they belonged. johanssen ventured into their bedroom and saw her laptop sitting open. she typed in her password and the first tab that popped up was her photo album. the picture open was one of the whole ares iii crew, laughing. she clicked out and found another tab open, a youtube video. never gonna give you up by rick astley. she laughed and sniffled, wiped at her nose with the back of her hand.

she ran up to beck and hugged him from behind, whispered, "hi," in his ear.

he grinned and said, "hey, there."

she let go and leaned against him. "our ghost rickrolled me."

she looked up at his face, and watched as his grin widened. she couldn’t help but smile back. "he what?"

"he literally rickrolled me. i checked my laptop. i guess he figured out my password but he- he rickrolled me."

"holy..." beck chuckled. "they say ghosts are pretty terrifying, but i don't think ours is that bad."

"don't jinx it, beck. i'm not moving." she kissed him.

by the time their house had been repaired, winter had come and gone and given way to spring. they moved back in, with dixie, now fully grown. they were even discussing trying for a baby.

beck asked johanssen if she thought the ghost had done okay while they were gone. they'd checked on the house, every once in a while, but for the most part construction workers had been fixing its unsound structure and they hadn't really felt the need to go visit.

his question was answered the following day. a giant welcome home sign hung in the middle of the hall, each letter printed on a separate sheet of paper. the last sheet was just an elongated smiley face.

they got back in the swing of things, got used to the ghost's presence. dixie didn’t get upset at night, any more, probably because the ghost had saved her life. it didn't pull as many pranks as it used to, but it did pull some. like moving stuff around, or leaving a whoopee cushion in random seats around the house. one morning something tickled beck's nose, and he brought a whipped cream-filled hand to his face. he could've sworn he heard someone laughing.

beck and johanssen kept talking about having a kid. beck asked, "do you think our ghost will be okay having a kid around?"

"what, you think he'll hurt it?"

"didn't say that."

johanssen nodded and intertwined her fingers with beck's. "the worst thing he's ever done is put butter in my shoes. and he loves dixie, so i don't see why he wouldn't love our baby."

"mhm. hey, why do you call it a 'he'?"

"subconscious," was her excuse, rather than saying she had an inkling that their ghost was one of their long dead friends. "sorry. but... i should be ovulating next week, so..." she wiggled her eyebrows and beck kissed her.

"so we can start when?"

"monday."

"monday."

on monday, johanssen picked beck up from work (his car was in the shop) and drove him home. they stepped inside, and the radio was on (they’d left it off), playing slow music, and the fireplace was bright (they’d never used it), and flower petals led the way to their bedroom (they knew for a fact neither of them had done that). there were glasses of champagne on beck's bedside table.

johanssen laughed into her hand and elbowed beck. "i guess this is him saying it's okay for us to have a baby."

"i guess so," beck muttered. he lifted a champagne glass and noticed the napkin underneath had something scribbled on it. "keep it down."

"excuse me?" johanssen said.

"no, no. that's what the napkin says."

johanssen took it from him and said, "that handwriting look familiar to you?"

he frowned. "yeah, kinda."

johanssen set it down, and beck shut the door.

they learned she was pregnant a few weeks later. the very next day, they found a book sitting out on the coffee table that'd been taken down from the attic, one of johanssen's mom's old ones, full of baby names. several names had been highlighted and their pages had been tabbed with sticky notes.

as the months passed, the ghost helped out. made her and beck breakfast every morning. moved the remote so johanssen never had to lean too far to get it.

in her eighth month of pregnancy, she sat at the dining room table while beck was off at the store. she took a sip of water and said, "thank you."

no response. she hadn't expected one, anyway. she continued, "i don't... i don't know if you are who i think you are. i don't even know if you are what i think you are. but, if i'm right, if you're... if you're... i don't have to say it. you know. if you're him, thanks for coming back. we missed you."

nothing. she folded her arms across her chest. "before we moved in here, we got married,” she said, swallowing hard before continuing. “we had a small wedding. but everyone was there. we saved you a seat. in the very back row, there was an empty seat. beck's idea. no one knew what it was for but us. and i looked back there and imagined you sitting there, happy, alive, and i know beck did the same."

still nothing. "but you died... and that's no one's fault but... i wish you were really here. i wish i could, you know, prank you back. i wish you hadn't died."

she swallowed and looked around. "and you've been so good to us. yeah, i mean, you've done some asshole-ish things, like, was it really necessary to move our entire bed into the backyard that one time, but you- you saved dixie, and you've helped me these past few months and... yeah. i'm gonna have a kid, soon! and you're gonna be here for that too. and i don't doubt that you'll be great, as always. beck, he feels the same way. anyway, this is just a long-winded way for me to say thank you."

she took a breath. "thanks for coming to stay with us, even though we left you behind. thanks for just... being a friend."

in that moment, the warmth she felt earlier, after the hurricane, distant but somehow homely, calm, rested itself on her shoulder. she turned to look, and it faded away.

she had their baby girl two weeks later, early but healthy. they took her home and got her settled.

one afternoon, after they put her down for a nap, she started crying, and johanssen checked the monitor and saw she'd kicked her blanket out of the crib. she ran to her room and found that she'd stopped crying, and the blanket was already back in the crib, wrapped around her.

the ghost helped out like this, for a few months. they got more sleep than most new parents ever do.

one morning, they heard their daughter giggling. in her room, they found the light was on, and the rocking chair was slowly rocking, as though someone had been sitting there. their daughter lay in her crib, one of her books out and open beside her.

weeks later, beck woke johanssen up and said, "you've gotta come see this."

she followed him into the hall, and couldn't help but laugh at the sight. hundreds of pictures of pepe the frog lined the walls.

"what's with our ghost and old memes?" beck asked.

johanssen just shook her head.

their daughter grew up, turned one, then two. on her second birthday, there was a gift wrapped in newspaper waiting on the dining room table. when they opened it, they saw a telescope. johanssen recognized it as one she’d had as a kid, one that’d broken to pieces. she’d been keeping it in the basement. but it’d been fixed up, for their daughter, and they took her outside and helped her look out into space.

years went by, they got older, and their daughter turned five. during those years, they were happy. one big family. beck, johanssen, dixie, their daughter, and the thing they called their ghost. of course, they never saw “their ghost”. it always seemed like it was right there, like they could see it out of the corner of their eyes but as soon as they turned to look, it was gone.

it was a saturday and beck and johanssen sat on the couch, watching a tv show with their daughter. she was sitting on the floor, while johanssen braided her hair. without warning, she leaned forward and pulled out a photo album from under the coffee table. johanssen leaned over to look and said, “oh, have we never shown you these pictures?”

their daughter shook her head and johanssen lifted her to the couch. beck peered over and smiled. “is that the mission photo album?”

johanssen nodded and said to their daughter, “remember how i told you daddy and i went to mars? these are the pictures from that trip.”

their daughter bounced excitedly and opened the photo album. the first picture was one of the whole crew, before they’d left earth. johanssen took in the faces of her crewmates, noting the youthfulness in their eyes, the excitement in their smiles. they had no idea something terrible would happen. no idea they’d be returning with one less person than they’d leave with. as johanssen looked it over, her daughter pointed to each face. “that’s aunt melissa! and uncle rick! and uncle alex! and there’s you, mommy! you look like a space princess.”

beck laughed, squeezed johanssen’s shoulder gently and said, “she kinda does!”

she was quiet for a moment, and then she pointed to the face on the far right. watney’s face. “hey!” she says. “i didn’t know he went to mars, too!”

beck cocked his head, and johanssen’s breath caught. her heart began to pound, and the whole room fell into in a loaded silence, the only noise the droning of the tv. eventually, beck said, “how do you… how do you know him?”

their daughter frowned and looked at her parents as though it was obvious. “he lives here! he’s really really funny. he reads me bedtime stories sometimes and he always uses silly voices for the characters.”

beck’s hand tightened on johanssen’s shoulder, and they exchanged a brief glance. johanssen took the book from her daughter’s hands and closed it. “i think it’s time for lunch,” she said, voice quiet and shaky.

beck didn’t bring it up with her later that night, perhaps because he forgot, but johanssen figured it was more likely that he didn't mention it because it upset him just as much as it upset her. suspicions were one thing. having them confirmed, knowing that it’d been her friend, this whole time, that was different. and talking about it made it feel even more certain, even more tangible. so they lay in bed that night and thought about their dead friend, about mars, about ghosts and fate and they didn’t say a word.

beck’s mom came to visit. she slept in the guest room, and they heard her scream early in the morning. they ran to her and found her lying in bed, eyes wide. beck calmed her down, while she continued to point at the opposite wall, mumbling something. johanssen inspected the wall, and found nothing of significance.

when she’d calmed down enough to make coherent sentences, she said, “right there! the closet! there was this- this noise.”

johanssen opened the closet door and stepped inside. the light was on. this was the closet where they kept their daughter’s old toys.

“what’d you hear?” beck asked.

“singing. this awful, high-pitched singing,” she said, her hands still shaking. “and then the door opened, and that’s when i started screaming.”

johanssen kicked one of the toys closest to the door, and a song began to play. “this the singing you heard?”

her mother-in-law nodded, “yes! god, what is that?”

“just an old toy. ghost was probably just messing around. nothing to be-“ she stopped midsentence. she’d forgotten that beck’s mother didn’t know.

“ghost?” she asked, her voice cautious.

beck opened his mouth to say something, but was distracted by the sudden flickering of the hallway lights. his mother shuddered, and beck and johanssen stared at each other for a moment, before beck blurted, “he’s not dangerous.”

his mother looked up at him with eyes confused and scared. “your… ghost… isn’t dangerous?”

johanssen rocked back onto her heels. the lights continued to flicker in the hall. “yeah, he’s, uh, just really annoying. give me one second,” she said, holding up a finger and trying to smile. she stepped out into the hall. “hey, if you could cut it out, that’d be great!”

the lights stopped flickering.

“he’s used to having free reign at night,” johanssen explained, stepping back into the room. she rubbed the back of her neck and looked down at her feet.

beck’s mother said nothing, only sat and gaped.

“here, mom, just go back to sleep. i promise he won’t hurt you. we’ll talk about this in the morning.”

“in the morning,” she repeated, lying down. “we’ll talk about the ghost in the morning.” her eyes were wide and bloodshot and her whole body was stiff.

she didn’t mention it the next morning, and neither of them felt like bringing it up. they hoped she’d just think it was a nightmare and move on.

as soon as she left, beck told the empty house, “okay, we’re gonna have to set some ground rules!”

“he doesn’t talk,” johanssen murmured. “maybe try a ouija board?”

so they bought a ouija board from the dollar store, and they set it up that night. it was dark, and their daughter was out at a friend’s. dixie had her head in johanssen’s lap, while beck read the instructions for the ouija board off of wikihow. he said, “can you hear me?”

they waited. dixie’s head perked after a minute or so, and the room grew warm. the message the moving plancette spelled read, all together, “u r dumb.” johanssen laughed.

beck said, “what was that for?” but no answer came.

dixie stood suddenly and ran to the kitchen. she hobbled back in with a notepad between her teeth. scrawled on the notepad in careless handwriting was the sentence, “i can write, you know.”

“forgot. sorry. wait, if you could write this whole time, why haven’t we talked more?” beck wrote back.

dixie took the pad from him, went to the kitchen, and came back minutes later. the new message read, “beats me. i guess the thought of actually communicating with you guys was sort of daunting.”

“us? daunting?”

“not what i meant. you two aren’t daunting. communicating is. especially considering it’s been a while. also, writing takes a surprising amount of effort when you’re dead.”

“more effort than moving our furniture around all the time?”

“ha. see, i know it’d make a lot more sense if i said no, but honestly writing does take more effort than moving your furniture around all the time. can't explain it.”

“so, you are dead, then?” beck wrote. johanssen told him writing such a short question was a waste of time, so he added, “and the main reason i wanted to talk to you was that whole episode with my mother. ground rules need to be set. you can’t mess with any of our guests, okay? it scares them.”

dixie again took the notepad away, then came back (a process that took time and confused them as to why it was necessary), and the reply read, “yeah. pretty fucking dead. and sorry about your mom. i hid in the closet when she got here, and i tried to wait for her to fall asleep, but then i kicked that stupid toy and she woke up. the lights flickering was just me having fun. i’ll cut that out.”

johanssen took the pad this time, writing, “thanks. but, sorry if this is a dumb question, can't you just walk through walls? another question: why can’t you just write your response in here? or, better yet, talk to us.”

"first question: sort of. it takes concentration, and it's pretty draining. second question: don’t want you two to see me. to write, i have to be fully here. you know, my whole self. face and all. and i can't talk to you, because i don’t want you two to hear me either. besides that, like writing, talking is exhausting."

“okay. well. how are you? you said you're dead, right? so... how does that feel, in contrast to being alive? what are your limitations?"

“fine. since we’re talking, your daughter’s adorable, by the way. she’s got beck’s eyes and, johanssen, if you’re the one writing (i’m guessing you are, your handwriting’s much neater), she’s got your nose. and being dead feels like being alive, without consequences. can't die, can't be arrested. i can literally get away with anything, and i can do cool shit like walk through walls (if i try hard enough) and be invisible. except it's tiring and lonely and i don't age, which is weird. i'm still figuring a lot of this out myself. there's not exactly an instruction manual for this sort of thing." below this, there was another note, which read, "that's a great fucking idea. i should get on that. i could call it 'ghosting for dummies'."

johanssen read the note and laughed. she gripped beck’s hand. “should we ask him?”

beck nodded. “might as well.”

“i hope you don’t mind me asking, but how’d you die?”

the reply took a considerable amount of time, so they expected a long response. instead, it was a single word. “accident.”

beck nudged her and squeezed her hand reassuringly. “go ahead.”

she picked up the pen and wrote, “are you him?” she paused, eyes burning. she bit back a small cry. she added, “is that you, mark?”

this time, dixie took the notepad, and didn’t return for a full hour. when she did pad back in, beck and johanssen took the notepad from her jaws carefully, and looked for an answer. there was none.

the ghost didn’t do anything for a whole week. the first sign that he was back came in the form of a sticky-note on their bathroom mirror. “hello,” it read. johanssen found a pad in her desk and wrote back a reply, and in this way, they continued to communicate.

beck found a sticky-note a few days later, and asked johanssen about it. "why's he suddenly all for communication?"

johanssen replied, "now that he's talking to us, he probably doesn't want to stop. he did say he was lonely."

the ghost wrote reminders, drew them (awful) pictures, wrote small greetings. sometimes the ghost would make a request, like asking them to stop changing their laptop passwords because he wanted to get in and had nothing else to do, or asking for them to buy certain things at the store for him to play around with.

one day, after beck returned home from a family christmas with an ugly sweater his mother had knitted him and threw it in the garbage, he woke to find that every shirt he’d owned had been removed, and the only thing in his drawer was the sweater, pulled from the trash. written on a sticky-note was, “you just look so sexy in that sweater” with a heart drawn next to it. johanssen found this note particularly funny, and considered getting it framed. beck, however, wasn’t amused. he couldn’t find his missing shirts for two days, and was forced to wear that sweater to work.

sticky-notes were found all over the walls, entire conversations written on the colorful paper squares. they forgot to clean them up, once, before a guest came over, and their guest was particularly shocked when she found a sticky-note on the kitchen wall that read “hey johanssen i don’t know if you knew this but beck gets off to the backyardigans theme song.” under this note was a reply that read, “oh, i know,” and under that, in beck’s sprawling handwriting, “what the fuck?”

their guest continued to explore and found another note that read, “did the laundry while you were away. johanssen, your pants smelled suspiciously of piss. just putting that out there.” johanssen had replied with, “it was dixie. i swear.” the note under this read, “sure."

johanssen got a job out of state when their daughter turned seven. she debated taking it for a while, but it was essentially the same job, with a considerably higher pay and a better location. no more hurricanes. so she took it. they sold their house, and they had two weeks to pack up and get out. as they were packing, they found a note on their bedroom door that read, “goodbye.”

“you can’t follow us?” beck wrote back.

“probably could. but won’t. being dead takes a lot out of you, it’s probably best for me to just go.”

“stay. until we leave. please.”

“i’ll stay until then.”

their daughter asked one night as they tucked her into bed if the man who lived with them would be coming, too.

johanssen said, “no,” then tapped her finger right over her daughter’s heart. “but he’ll always be with you, right here.”

“i’m gonna miss him,” their daughter said. “why can’t he come?”

“he’s tired, sweetheart. he’s been through a lot. you know how tired you feel after soccer practice? imagine that times… one thousand.”

“times one thousand!” their daughter exclaimed. “why’s he that tired?”

johanssen didn’t answer, just said good night and flipped off the light.

the day they left, the house was eerily empty. just hardwood flooring and blank white walls. no sign that anything had ever happened here. johanssen held their daughter’s hand, and told her to wave goodbye. she did.

beck held the door open. “goodbye, buddy,” he said, quietly.

silence. johanssen turned her head and found a sticky-note stuck to the back of the door. “bye,” it read. beck made a noise. she spun back around to face the interior of the house, and there he was. he looked just like he had when they first met, young, happy. lopsided grin, messy hair. he waved.

they both waved back. beck’s eyes watering, johanssen’s heart pounding. the room was warm. their daughter said, “hi!” and he responded. his voice just the same.

“hey, there,” he said.

beck held a hand over his mouth and shook his head. johanssen stared, afraid to look away.

mark watney, a friend she never thought she’d see again, standing close enough to touch. he waved again, then said, “you guys gonna go or what?” she could see tears in his eyes, but he kept smiling.

johanssen choked back a sob and held a hand to her chest. beck grabbed her gently by the arm, and said, “we’re getting there. it’s a bit overwhelming.”

“seeing me?” mark said. “am i even more handsome than you remember?”

johanssen rolled her eyes, then said, sniffling, “don’t flatter yourself.”

mark smirked, and she still couldn’t believe that this was mark, and he was smiling right there in front of her. “thank you,” beck said, “for everything.”

watney, their ghost, didn’t say anything, only nodded.

beck opened the door wide and they stood in the doorframe for a moment, looking at their friend, who waved once again. before they could shut the door, their daughter stepped inside and set her teddy bear down in front of him. “in case you get lonely,” she said. mark tried to say no, but she'd already ran out into the yard, and he stared at it before picking it up. johanssen and beck watched, then said their last goodbyes and shut the door. her last glimpse of him, she'd seen his smile fall. she opened the door and peered inside, and, not to her surprise, but much to her dismay, he was gone. she closed the door again and locked it.

the walk to the car was quiet, somber. beck sat down in the driver’s seat, right on top of a whoopee cushion.

their daughter giggled in the backseat. “don’t get mad!" she said. "he told me to do it!”