Page 33 of How to Survive Your Own Death

“You’ll know.”

So the grim reaper was vague on that too. Must be corporate policy.

“How long is this going to take?” she asked. She checked the message on the ghost phone. This was the right place and time.

“Be patient and observe.”

And just like that, things happened. Traffic appeared out of nowhere and drivers were already impatient and honking. People on their way to work materialized, crowding the once vacant sidewalk. Thankfully, the auras had vanished. They were regular people with no special glow. A small line formed at the smoothie cart on the corner. A delivery truck pulled into the narrow street and two men climbed out. They struggled to offload an upright piano.

And then Geri could see it unfold.

The world seemed to slow down even as a cyclist zipped through traffic, weaving its way around cars and blowing through a stop light. A silver car slammed on its breaks and honked, causing a chain reaction of screeching brakes and blasting horns.

The cyclist jumped the curb onto the sidewalk, inches from Geri. He had an aura, bright and reckless. She reached out, touching him briefly as he rode past, and felt the sticky-tacky pull of taking a soul. The aura glow clung to her fingers.

The movers in the back of the truck lost their grip. The piano broke free, barreling down the ramp, through the alley, into the street. A car swerved to avoid the piano and ran onto the sidewalk, plowing into the cyclist.

Geri dropped her coffee, the cooling liquid splashing over her shoes.

Her stomach rose at the thump of impact as the cyclist bounced off the hood and onto the sidewalk. She turned away, hand covering her gagging mouth.

This was horrible. It was one thing to theoretically collect a soul. That sounded clean and precise. It was quite another to witness a death. It was gory and came with sounds…

The sounds were the worst.

She was going to throw up her bagel and coffee. She hunched over, her stomach heaving, but nothing came of it.

“What happened?” A pale man stood next to her, his image watery in the sunlight.

“You died.” She rightened, wiping her the back of her hand across her mouth.

“No. I’m fine. Look. Not even a scratch.” He held up a mostly transparent hand. His aura was fading.

Absolutely no part of her wanted to look at his mortal remains but it seemed wrong to close her eyes. The man was dead. He deserved to be acknowledged.

“Look again.” She pointed to the body on the pavement.

“I don’t understand… The car wasn’t going that fast.”

“You hit your head.” In a moment of solidarity, she added, “That’s how I died, too.”

“Oh.” The cyclist’s gaze bounced from her to Bazel, a literal grim reaper, and startled. A skeleton in a robe will do that.

Yeah, that about summed it up.

“It is time for you to move on,” Bazel said, his voice taking on a ringing quality.

Right, her job. She needed to be his hands in the material world.

With the letter opener, she slashed the air in front of her and the universe sort of… parted? Like there was a hole. A proper hole in the fabric of reality. Shifting light glowed at the edges in a soft rainbow of colors. It was lovely, really.

“What happens now?” the cyclist asked.

“I don’t know,” she answered.

The cyclist gave her a skeptical look but took a step forward, vanishing.

There was a whoosh and the popping of air pressure in her ears and the tear sealed.