Everyone meets Death.
Few are ready.
"I'm not ready," says Julia.
"No one is on time for this," Doris says. "You least of all, I think."
Julia takes the hand.
Not because she agrees. Because something older than thought does not leave her the choice.
"You cross. I don't."
For the first time,
Death is not ready.
"I'm meant to be a skeleton with a scythe," she says, adjusting her scarf. "People expect that."
"Did you check if the scythe's inside?"
She looks up. Her nostrils flare out.
"I can't open it."
Someone — a woman —
has fixed her in this shape.
"Think. Bones. Reaper. Sharpened steel."
A skull flickers over the human face — then blinks out.
Doris's reply is not a voice. It is command.
"YOU CANNOT STRIP ME
OF MY ASPECT!"
"I can't," she whispers. "It won't come."
What happens when the function
becomes human?
MEET DEATH
DORIS
"Welcome aboard."
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