Michael Landon is my master.

He told me so in a dream.

He came to me while I slept and said, "You can rest now. Your job here is finished. You've been good."

It meant the world to me to receive his praise, and yet I didn't want to hear it. I didn't want to be done. "But, Michael," I said. "It's not. My hair is not as long as yours. I have work yet left to do."

And Michael Landon laughed--not a hard laugh, not a mean laugh, not a smug laugh, but a chuckle, a confident, hearty, cheerful chuckle that made me think he knew better than I and made me feel young.

Michael Landon placed his hand on my shoulder and looked me in the eye. "Son," he said. "Your hair will never be as long as mine. It's not as long as mine now, and if you grow yours longer, I will grow mine longer too. I'll be one step ahead of you always."

I raised my eyes to meet his because while he'd spoken, I'd cast mine toward the ground, unable to look him in the eye as an equal. "Well," I said, and I fumbled for the words to disprove him. "What if I were to, what if I were to, what if I were to cut your hair off while you slept? Why, then my hair would be longer than yours!"

And Michael Landon laughed again, but this second laugh was different. It didn't end of its own volition and trail off as the first one had, tired and ready to rest. He cut it off abruptly instead as if it hadn't been a laugh at all. And then he stared at me sternly and spoke to me firmly and tried, I think, to break my spirit. "But you can't cut it off. I'm a ghost!"

And my eyes got red and filled with water, and I looked at the ground and said, "Yes, Pa." And then I turned and ran away to the creek past the mill.

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