I named my dead sister Nancy and talked to her in the privacy of my closet for eleven years. Nancy was an ornery creature, a rabble-rouser, furious over her early demise. Her favourite prank was to desecrate her house in some hideous way and then demand a new one. The authorities were surprisingly accommodating, time after time. No questions were asked. It turns out that heaven is full of houses. And so Nancy fashioned a quasi-nomadic existence for herself, traveling from one house to another, to another, each neighbourhood as tranquil and unremarkable as the last. I admit that several times I helped her plan her next attack. We made a creatively destructive team.