Page 41 of How to Survive Your Own Death

“A ghost is a disembodied soul. You will notice.” They were impossible to miss. Often, once a ghost realized they could be seen, they pestered the person with demands to deliver messages, retrieve treasured objects, or whatever petty mortal business kept them bound to this realm. When a ghost saw Bazel, however, they fled. A reaper would not entertain requests to complete their unfinished business.

“Why does no one notice me talking to myself?” Geri asked.

“You are not talking to yourself.”

She rolled her eyes again. Such repetitive motion could not be good for her health. “Yes, I’m having a delightful chat with the embodiment of death who happens to be invisible. I’m not even pretending to be on the phone and no one is giving me the side eye. I’m sure you’re going to tell me that you don’t know, but humor me. Why?”

“It is quite simply your association with my person,” he explained. “The mortal gaze refuses to acknowledge the transient nature of their lives and does not perceive me. Perhaps you have noticed how no one stands too close?”

Geri chewed on her lower lip, as if considering his answer. There was no point in lying or giving an evasive answer. She had an uncanny ability to know when he was being less than truthful. She said, “That lady in the park saw me talking to you.”

“Indeed. She will die soon.”

“What? She didn’t look sick,” she said and it was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard a mortal utter. “Oh, save the judgmental looks. I heard it once I said it.”

“Death can happen at any time. One does not have to look sick to suffer an accident or a fatal heart attack.” Bazel was multitalented. He could deliver judgy looks and a lecture if he pleased.

“Noted.” She glanced down at the phone issued by management and frowned. “The time changed again. Now we’re a little early.”

Because he was in a generous mood, he asked, “What is your second question?”

“There’s you, right.” She stepped to the side, out of the flow of traffic.

“Yes, there is me,” he answered. They stood near a subway entrance.

“And you mentioned Good Day Good Morning.”

“Humble Good Day,” he corrected.

“How many reapers are there?”

An excellent question. He noticed a distinct decline in the reaper population. As a species, they were not immortal but they were durable. A reaper simply did not vanish.

Usually. Then again, there usually was not a powerful wraith stealing scythes either. Usual was no longer the standard.

“That is three questions. You misled me.”

“I said I had a few questions, which is more than two but less than many. Now answer the question. How many reapers are there?”

“Enough,” he answered, which was not a deliberate lie. Usually, there was enough. While he might be one of the oldest reapers, there was plenty of a younger vintage.

Usually.

For all the good that did. When he lost his scythe, he sought assistance from Amais, but the younger reaper was nowhere to be found.

“Our population increases when a great death is imminent,” he said. Decreases were a gradual thing. The population thinned as reapers stepped back from their duties and laid down their scythes. They did not simply vanish.

Geri hummed, a noise he quickly learned to associate with her asking an uncomfortable question. He did not enjoy withholding information from her but she could not know this. Unfortunately, she was entirely too observant, and in his experience, asking the wrong sort of questions was not conducive to a long life.

“But how many are in Philadelphia? I can’t be expected to be all over the city all the time, no days off,” she said.

“Death does take the occasional holiday.”

“Really?”

“No.”

She sighed dramatically. “Questionable labor practices aside, how many reapers are there?”