Page 169 of 72 Hours of You

“That’s not how it works. I told you. Death doesn’t let go. Ever.”

“Right. Sorry,” Peter says. He looks back at the sun-facing woman. “There’s a used-book store across the street. I’ll go in and find something for her real quick. You just … keep an eye on her.”

“Like a stakeout.”

“Yeah,” Peter says, unironically. “Exactly.”

I roll my eyes. “Okay, just hurry up. She might decide she needs to go to Coney Island and stare into the ocean or something.”

“Roger that,” Peter says, hustling over to the little brown shop.

While Peter’s in there getting whatever he’s getting (I’m kind of hoping he comes back out with something ridiculous like Oh, the Places You’ll Go!), I let myself watch the Clocker. She doesn’t get out a phone or even open her eyes for a while. She keeps sitting there. Just keeps being, while she can, I guess.

There’s something sort of nice about it. I haven’t actually seen that many people who were okay with dying. I’ve seen people trying to pretend like they were. But if you looked hard enough, you could see all that smiling and peaceful sighing was bullshit. The illusion of contentment, when really they were ready to claw at the walls. But this Clocker doesn’t know anyone’s watching her. And she looks okay. Maybe she really is.

Peter comes back, holding up a white plastic bag. He looks excessively pleased with himself. I peek inside the bag. A Kit Kat bar and a collection of Frost’s poems.

“Uh … why?” I say.

“Well, a Kit Kat is the friendliest candy bar and—”

“Is it, though?”

“Yeah. And poems are easy. And fast. I didn’t want to get a novel because …”

“Yeah. Well, I’m sure she’ll like the poems. Everyone likes Frost.”

“I guess you’ll find out,” Peter says, holding the bag up to me.

“Me? Wait. Hold on. You want me to give it to her?”

“Yeah,” Peter says, “I think it’s better if you take this one.”

I haven’t actually “taken” any of them, now that I think about it. I’ve kind of let Peter do the actual speaking to people and handing out of stuff while I just hang back and nod encouragingly. Or maybe not even encouragingly.

“I don’t know …” I say.

“I don’t mind doing it,” Peter says. “But I really think you should.” And then he keeps looking at me.

“Oh fuck it, whatever,” I say, snatching the bag from him. “I’m sure we’ll have a great time discussing German exceptionalism.”

“It’s not Mein Kampf.”

I wave him off and walk across the street. Toward the pink light. So I have to go hand a rando Clocker a book and a candy bar. How bad could that be?

Thirty-Two

I MAKE IT TO THE CLOCKER and she’s still sitting there with her eyes closed, attempting photosynthesis.

25:24:07

The pink light is so bright I have to squint. I glance back at Peter and he gives me a thumbs-up like a dad at a soccer game.

I take a breath. Okay. Fucking do it.

“Excuse me, ma’am?” I sound like a waitress at a Cracker Barrel.

The Clocker opens her eyes and looks at me. “Yes?”