who has the job, not in age, not in race, not in gender, not even in temperament. But one Ferryman, an old lady, told me that we were selected because we had unfinished emotional business when we died. “Lot more love to give” is how she phrased it, so we spend our afterlives easing people’s most terrifying journey. I suppose I understand that, but I wish I knew when the job would be done.
The dresser stopped rocking, but Corbin hadn’t moved. It took a full minute for him to sputter out, “How?”
“You had an aneurysm. There was no stopping it.”
“You’re here for me? To take me with you?”
“Yes.”
“The way you took Dad?”
“Yes.”
His eyes darted back and forth until they lashed at me.
“Were you always here for me? Is that what you’ve been doing here, some twisted version of playing with your food?” He clenched his jaw, crossed his arms.
“No. I was here for your dad. I didn’t know why you could see me.” I wanted to sound calm and trustworthy, but I needed him to believe me so badly that my voice wavered. “You were always on the brink of death. It could have burst at any time. I should have