Kennedy Linsfeild was distraught over the unexplained death of Scott Ronstein. Every night she dreamt of him, his dimples cutting into his cheeks, his striking blue eyes, his messy brown hair. She began to see him everywhere. Dreams and reality became hard to tell apart when she sees his familiar figure, except it cast a blue glow and was transparent. He sat in his usual spot, upon Kennedy's desk. What is he doing here? Better yet, how is he here?