Tossing my keys and my scythe down on the kitchen table, I kicked off my shoes and threw myself down on the couch. It had been a long day of harvesting souls, and I was ready for a break.

Just as I was beginning to slip into that pleasant stupor that comes from thinking about nothing, the doorbell rang. I lay still, contemplating whether I really wanted to answer it. Then came a pounding as someone gave the door knocker a vigorous workout.

“All right, all right, I get the picture,” I grumbled, sliding off the couch and staggering, sock-footed, to the door. I had already removed my black cloak, and was wearing khaki shorts and a blue-grey T-shirt. I opened the door, hoping that whoever was on the other side was not expecting to see me in my professional capacity.

A young woman stood on my doorstep. She had a pretty face – nothing exceptional, but pretty – and long, light-brown hair. Her eyes were dark blue, and full of terror. I figured, of course, that she was terrified of me. Most people are. However, as soon as she saw me, she smiled, if nervously.

“Look, I’m sorry to be bothering you like this, but I need your help!”

“What is it?” I asked hesitantly. I’m not one to hand out favors, mostly because the favors people ask me tend to bend the rules of the universe – no, I can’t tell you about a life-after-death; no, I cannot tell you when you’re going to die; no, I cannot kill your boss until it’s his time. I steeled myself for whatever she was going to ask me, prepared to answer in the negative.

“Can I come in?”

“N- what?”

“I know, you don’t know me, but I’m being followed, and I don’t know anyone on this street. Please, let me in!”

As far as I knew, letting a strange woman into my apartment was not against any laws of the universe. It certainly wasn’t normal – but, then, considering what I did for a “living”, normal wasn’t really a part of my life.

“Um, ok.” I stepped back, and let her in, thinking, as I did so, that she was the first woman to enter this apartment since I had moved in. It was kind of a depressing thought.

“Wow, you must travel a lot!” said the woman. She was looking around in wondering awe at the things I had gathered over the years – figurines and masks and tapestries and fans, all from the most diverse places in the world. Seeing her enthusiasm made me grin – I had been surrounded by these things for years, loved each of them in turn, but had never been able to share them with anyone. “Are those actually from Japan? and this, from Egypt? Paris? China?”

“I’ve travelled all over,” I said, “For work. But I always take time out to enjoy the places I visit.”

“Wow, where do you work? I wouldn’t mind having a job like that!”

I quickly steered the conversation away from my work. It was nice, speaking with someone who didn’t know who I was.

“Are you certain you were being followed?” I asked.

My guest stiffened, and quickly went to the window. She peered cautiously out.

“Coo!” she said, quietly, “There they are!” She ducked away from the window, and I went to have a look. Three men were milling about on the street, looking about with frustrated expressions. I could tell, from experience, that they were, as they say, “packing heat.” They looked like killers – and, believe me, in my profession I’ve come across plenty of those.

“What could they want with you?” I asked. I was concerned for this strange woman who had come suddenly into my life. I felt, somehow, responsible for protecting her.

“I-I don’t know,” she said, “Are they gone?”

They weren’t. It seemed they were arguing about something. Closing the blinds, I then reached out a hand to help her to her feet. As soon as we touched, numbers flew through my head.

“Rebecca Wygraff. April 26. Twenty-three years, seven months, two days, nine hours.”

Now she was looking at me with a touch of fear. She snatched her hand away from mine.

“How did you know that?" she demanded, "Are you psychic or something?”

“What?” I realized with dismay that I had spoken aloud. “Um… yeah. It’s my only trick, though. Names and ages. After that, I can’t see anything.” This was not strictly true. At that touch, there was one more thing I knew about Rebecca Wygraff: the date and time of her death. Worse yet, it was alarmingly soon.

♥The Hot Girl in the Comic Shop

I'm not afraid to die. I just don't want to be there when it happens.