He didn’t respond. The minute turn of his head toward the photos on the mantel revealed more of his young features. He was in his mid-twenties, handsome, clean-shaven, with dark brown, almost obsidian eyes that caught the embers of twilight and didn’t blink. His long, shoulder-length blond hair, a fashion she’d never really liked on men, despite being a teenager in the 60s, suited him. Less so his cotton shirt, black jacket, and pants, which came off as an ironic ensemble a rebel might wear for his grandma’s sake, to hide the fact that his usual wardrobe consisted of biker denim and an MC cut.

Of course, Blythe knew all this to be true because she knew him, the boy who’d come to fetch her, the boy whose face was death: His. Soon to be hers. It all made perfect sense, and yet she couldn’t quite swallow what was happening.

“Thomas Bonden, am I dreaming?”

“You tell me.”

“I-I think I must be. This is way too eerie.”

“And reality isn’t?”

Her hands began to shake. The photo frame slid from her weak grip. Luckily, her tennis days hadn’t completely deserted her, those lightning reactions came to the rescue as she caught the picture and stood it on the medication table in one fluid heart-in-mouth motion. The ragged pulse returned to her chest, threatened to spread its tightness. But, several deep measured breaths managed to still it, at least momentarily.

“This is the end, isn’t it? I’m out of time.”

“Yes.”

She dare not look him the eye. Instead, her gaze fixed on his shoes. Cheap but clean brown loafers, exactly what she’d expect Hank Bonden’s son to wear on a Sunday outing.

“So, this isn’t a dream?” she asked.

“Does it matter?”

“I…I don’t know. It seems like one, but it doesn’t feel like one.”

“People die in their sleep all the time, Blythe. When it arrives, what’s the difference?”

“When it arrives? You mean when you arrive?”

Again, he didn’t respond. Each silence flooded the room with heavy air, the kind that taxed her lungs. She knew she would have to fight if she wanted more time, but perhaps that, too, was futile. Unlike Rose and Andy, Death didn’t have a punctuality problem.

“Promise me it won’t hurt.” Still, she couldn’t look up at him. “The last time a heart attack nearly killed me, it hurt like hell.”

“I can’t…”