Page 23 of How to Survive Your Own Death

“Don’t you fucking dare lecture me about avocado toast, you ghoul.”

“If you did not ask for oat milk and a double shot of caramel.”

Mr. I’ve-Never-Had-Cake had opinions about coffee.

“What was that?” she asked, ignoring his boomer take on her order.

“A wraith, a zombie, a shade. There are many names.”

“Will that…” She tried to formulate her question. Part of her was worried that people would freak out about her talking to herself, but no one seemed to have noticed. The other part was stunned and still processing. “Will that happen to me? Am I going to zombie out?”

“No. As I attempted to explain earlier, your soul never separated from your body. You are resurrected. A revenant,” he said in a calm tone. For the first time since this mess started, he sounded gentle.

Kind.

That seemed right to her. Death should be kind. Life was too difficult to face cruelty at the end.

Or whatever happened next.

She entered her building and steered her bike toward the storage room. Sweat rolled down her back from the brisk walk. The air in the storage room was stuffy and too warm, yet she couldn’t take her hands off the handlebars. Locking up her bike felt impossible because the moment she was done, she’d have to deal with him.

If anthropomorphic personifications have a gender.

“You’re real,” she said, not asking a question but needing to say the words to process.

“Vividly so.”

“And just because this keeps tripping me up, are you a man? A male. I mean, your voice. Why is this hard? You give off that vibe, but you’re currently a skeleton, so⁠—”

“Gender is a mortal concept, and I am not a man,” he said. The kind, gentle tone was gone and replaced with a teacher prepared to deliver a lecture of metaphysical biology. “However, if it makes you comfortable, then you may think of me as a man. It is no skin off my nose.”

Awkward silence filled the storage room.

“You don’t have a nose,” she said.

“That was humor to help you cope with a reality with which you are clearly struggling.”

Geri pinched the bridge of her nose. That was a terrible joke. Her reaper was as old as time—presumably—and bungled the comedic timing. “So, if you’re real, then what about heaven? Hell? Angels? All that?”

“You asked that before.”

“And I’m asking again because before I thought I was crazy,” she said. Because she believed him to be a delusion, she demanded answers but hadn’t really listened.

“I do not know.”

“You don’t know.” She let go of the bike and turned to face him. “How can you not know?”

“I am a psychopomp. My duty is to accompany a soul as they transition into the next phase of existence. I do not judge, nor do I know what will happen next. I have never met an angel or a demon. I’ve witnessed particularly vile mortals, but they managed that evil all on their own.”

“Okay,” she said, her voice growing quiet. She was reaching her limit on weird.

“Mortals have also embodied such goodness and compassion to move even a bitter soul like mine.”

That was comforting but that wasn’t what caught her attention. “You have a soul?”

His shoulders drew back, as if offended. “Yes, I have a soul. All living creatures have a soul.”

“Dogs and cats?”