“Neither do I,” he says. “I don’t know if we go to heaven, or hell, or purgatory. Maybe we all just rot in the earth with the worms sliding through our skulls. All these preachers and scientists who try to tell us what’s going to happen to us after we die, none of them know. But I do know what happens when you live. I know what the air feels like when it fills my lungs. I know what it’s like to have the sun on my face and beer in my belly. I know what it’s like to lie awake in a dark room. I know I gotta die one of these days. Not too many people in my line of work reach a ripe old age. But even so, if a little fear can buy me two extra hours, I’ll take it.”

I run my fingers along the edge of my bread plate, take another sip of my martini.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he says.

“Yes.” I tap my foot against the hard floor. “I’m sure you do.”

“Go ahead and say it, I won’t be offended.”

I look up, meet his eyes as a busser brings over a basket of rolls before making a quick retreat. “I’m thinking,” I say, “that you rob people of those last few hours, weeks, and years all the time.”

“Yeah, well, I only give people what they deserve. And even then I don’t always take pleasure in it. What can I say?” He selects a roll from the basket before adding, “Every job has its drawbacks.”

I burst out in startled laughter. It’s not that what he’s saying is funny. He’s a horrible person. I know that.

But he’s also the only person I’m in contact with who actually knows my real name, even though he never uses it. I should probably want to avoid him just for that reason alone, but oddly enough it draws me to him.

I take a roll and tear into it, trying to figure out if I should ask why I’m here or if I should wait for it to be revealed.

But Micah makes that decision for me.

“What are your plans for Travis?” he asks after a moment of silence.

“He’s just my employer.”

“Hmm, does he know you know me?”

“He knows I worked in one of your bars.”

“Yes, but only for about a week.”

“He doesn’t know that detail.”

A plate of ravioli is placed in front of me and my wineglass is filled with white wine. Micah nods his approval to the waitress. “I always ask for my wine to be poured just as the food arrives. Wine’s supposed to be a complement. If you want to get fucked-up before dinner you should stick with tequila.”