“But how?” Greg seemed genuinely puzzled. “I've watched humans face death hundreds of times during my internship. Almost everyone is scared at the end, even if they've made peace with it. There's a moment, right before, when they understand what's happening. But you just jump like it doesn’t matter.”
“It's my job.”
“Jumping off cliffs is your job?”
“Entertainment. Content creation. Whatever you want to call it.” Dustin pushed his pie around with his fork. “People watch. I jump. Everyone's happy.”
“Are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Happy.”
The question hung in the air. Dustin should have deflected. He was good at deflecting. A joke, a flirtation, a smooth change of subject—he had a hundred ways to avoid questions he didn't want to answer.
Instead, he heard himself say, “I don't think about it.”
Greg tilted his head. Watching. Waiting.
“I used to,” Dustin continued, not sure why he was still talking. “Think about it, I mean. Whether I was happy. What I wanted. All that stuff. But it's easier not to. You just keep moving. Keep jumping. Eventually you run out of time to wonder.”
“Run out of time?”
“Everyone does, right? That's what you're telling me. Death comes for everyone. So why waste the time I have worrying about whether I'm using it right?”
Greg was quiet for a long moment. “Oh,” he said then, “that's very sad.”
“You've witnessed hundreds of deaths. I'm sure you've heard worse.”
“It just seems wrong.” Greg's voice was soft. “To be sad about living rather than dying.”
Dustin's throat tightened. He took a sip of coffee to cover it. The mug was nearly empty.
“We should get the check,” he said.
Greg looked down at his plate. He'd eaten most of the burger and all of the fries. The wreckage of his meal was impressive—ketchup smears, stray lettuce, an abandoned pickle that had fallen off his burger. “You wanted me to pay, right?”
“Do you have money?”
“I—” Greg hesitated. “No.”
“Reapers don't get paid?”
“We don't need money. Everything at headquarters is provided. I didn't think about—” He stopped, looking genuinely distressed. “I'm sorry. I've made this awkward.”
“It was already awkward. You're a supernatural entity who stalked me to my motel room.”
Greg’s cheeks went red. Because of course they did.
“It’s okay,” Dustin said. “I’ll pay.”
“I’ll find money,” Greg promised. “Before next time.”
“Next time?”
The red deepened. “If there's a next time. I didn't mean to presume. I just thought…for research purposes…”
“Research purposes.”
