Thanatology!!

22.0

"Sorry." He sheathes his bony fingers and shoves them in his pockets.

The duo stands there in silence sometimes broken by Oto whistling a song that doesn't exist. Cheron tugs at her eye patch.

"I just want to say that... I could have sworn you used to have meat on those bones," she mutters then turns to Oto and tugs his shirt. "Also, I had fun last night."

Beaming, he turns to her, then he remembers that she's short, so he looks down. He's still beaming. The two talk about the movie, the chicken, the poem Cheron is currently working on, the flowers Oto recently murdered, the reaping of said flowers, and some other stuff. They only stop when Hal hollers, having finished repairs. The Hearse looks brand new, that is, if brand new cars came with copious layers of duct tape. From a distance, one might think it's a shiny, silver vehicle. However, up close, one might think it's a dragon's coprolite covered in aluminum foil. Regardless, it's still impressive. He only used duct tape, and it drives.

Cheron rushes to Hal and holds his hand. It is bigger than her torso. "The Hearse looks wonderful. We can't thank you enough."

"Yeah," he says, stuffing a body bag with hundreds of empty rolls of duct tape.

"Wow, just, wow, Hal." Agape, Oto rubs the passenger door. "You've really outdone yourself. It's gorgeous. You're kind of like an artist."

That last sentence rings out in Hal's ears. His bygone life, all of his unfinished paintings, and all of his off-site art exhibits flash before his eye. The memories wash away like sand castles in high tide, then they exit him in the form of a single tear. It drips down his face. He punches it. "Yeah," he says. "Kind of."

"Uh..." Oto reaches a hand to Hal but quickly stops it. "Welp. Thanks again! We'll, uh, we'll get out of your hair." He slips into the passenger seat, reconvening with Cheron, who has already started the car.

Hal watches as they sputter off of the white ground and into the white sky, allowing the dog-eared portal to swallow them then zip back up.

In the distance, on the other side of Purgatory, Juby drags Todd by the wings. She whips her head around, back and forth, eyes peeled. Occasionally, she stops to adjust her black leather gloves, which are now required by uniform policy. It was especially difficult to find gloves for Todd, who now skids his heels, sometimes emitting a low, hoarse squawk. Juby thinks, at most, they've been hunting for a couple hours. They have been hunting for a day and a half. Most of that time was spent accidentally circling back to the Hotel.

Juby tilts her head back until her eyes meet Todd's. "Do you see him?"

"SQUAWK."

"You know he didn't mean to reap us. I think he was just overwhelmed." She returns to searching. "Don't know from what though. Maybe something with that Scythe. That would explain..." Her voice trails off.

"SQUAWK. SQUAWK?"

"Ha! As if. I broke up with him because he's a pathetic, sad man who always cries about how pathetic and sad his pathetically sad life— er, death— is— was."

"SQUAWK."

"Because no one gets to damn him for eternity but me, alright? Now can it, and keep looking."

Todd sighs. They tromp on in silence. The Hotel is nowhere to be seen.

Juby clears her throat. "You know, I really am grateful you were in charge of forwarding the email instead of stealing the Scythe. I'm glad you're safe. Thank you, Todd."