"Tomorrow?"

"Well, we all thought we could go down early and get a day at the beach before, you know …"

"Before we do it," said Tom. He was finding a perverse pleasure in reminding others what this was all about. Even Arabella. Even though he didn't want to say what "it" was any more than the others did.

He slept late. When he got up, Ara was packing groceries, tears running down her face.

"We knew this had to happen," he said, putting his arms around her from behind.

"That doesn't make it any easier," she said.

While she finished packing, he found himself walking through the rooms, saying good-bye to the Salter Street house. It wasn't as hard as he would have thought. He had said good-bye to lots of houses in his day. And this house was more Arabella's than his anyway, even though they had bought it together, almost twenty years before.

It was Ara's garden he found hardest. She made sure it was all watered before she left. These plants will continue to grow, he thought. They will still be growing in their mindless, stupid way, while I will be no more.

No more.

"Heere's Johnny!" said Cliff, pulling up in his yellow Cadillac.

The drive from Portland to Holystone Bay was three hours, over the dark, tangled ridges of the Coast Range. It was a quiet drive. The four of them, who had talked nonstop about everything for twenty years, couldn't think of anything to say.

It was raining when they crossed the last ridge and saw the ocean with the great holed rock that gave the bay, and its smattering of a town, its name. The house was cold. The wind rattled through the boards. Tom fired up the wood stove while Cliff hauled in the groceries and Arabella and Pam put them away.

"Brrrr," said Cliff. "This house was never designed for winter."

"It's fall," said Pam.

"It was never designed for any of this," Tom said grimly.

"Well, it'll have to do," said Cliff. He set the beige box on the table, which was made of driftwood planks, salt-whitened—like bone, Tom thought.

"Stop it," he said, to himself.

"Huh?" asked Pam from the kitchen door. "What?"

"Nothing."

There was knock at the front door. Tom opened it, and stepped back—shocked at the figure on the stoop.

Death, in a yellow hood. No—

Not yet.

A young woman was on the stoop, dressed in a yellow raincoat, hood up, dripping wet.

"Can I help you?"

"I'm Karin," the young woman said. "With an I. Your midwife."

"Midwife?"

"I mean M-monitor," she said, standing first on one foot and then the other. "Monitor. For the induction."

"That's not until tomorrow," said Cliff.

"I know, but I thought I …"

"Come in out of the rain," said Arabella from the kitchen door.

Tom closed the door behind her, and she stood, dripping all over the rag rug. Arabella took her raincoat and gave her a towel. Instead of drying her hair with it, she put it around her shoulders like a shawl. She was very tall and thin.

"You must be Arabella," she said, using two fingers to squeeze the rain out of her stringy blond hair; it fell, hissing, onto the wood stove. "I know all your names from the social security database. My name is Karin, with an I. I know it's not until tomorrow—"

Even they call it it, thought Tom, with a certain grim satisfaction.

"—but I came early, because I've never seen the Oregon coast," she said, "and I thought I would make it sort of a little vacation. The state pays for three days for out-of-the-way places. I'm staying up the road at the Spyglass Lodge."

"The only place around," said Cliff. "Wainwrong's place."

"How did you get here?" asked Pam, looking outside for a car.

"I walked. They don't give us a car. They give us cab fare, but there are no cabs. There's no anything here."

"You got that right," said Tom.

"I didn't mean to intrude," Karin said. "I just came by to say hello and introduce myself. I don't usually do … this sort of thing."

"We don't either," said Tom.

"Sit down," said Pam. She set an extra place for dinner. Ara cooked frozen shrimp imported from South Carolina, and Cliff opened a bottle of Willamette Valley pinot noir.

"This is my government service," Karin said, after she had stopped shivering. "I still have eight months to go. I haven't done too many of these."

"Then we're even," said Tom.

"What's this about being a midwife?" Arabella asked. "Is that what they call it?"

"Oh, no, no!" said Karin with a laugh, which she quickly stifled, turning it into a polite cough. "I was training to be a midwife when they called me up. That's what I still hope to do full time. This is very good wine for Oregon."

"Pinot noir," said Cliff. "I own an interest in the vineyard."

"An interest!" Pam said, with a bitter laugh. Cliff had invested a hundred thousand in the vineyard; he often joked that the wine was twelve hundred dollars a bottle. It was Pam's least-favorite joke.

"Let me guess," said Tom. "You're from California."

"Los Angeles. But my boyfriend is from Oregon. He told me it was beautiful here."

"It's a lot nicer here in the summer," said Arabella. "But we like it all the time."

"Does it always rain like this?"

"No, no. Sometimes it rains sideways," said Tom.

They finished the bottle, and Cliff opened another. The presence of the girl at the table made it somehow easier to talk. She was a dishwater blonde with sallow skin but perfect, if slightly small, teeth. Her eyes were a washed-out blue.

"We bought this place for twenty grand twenty years ago," said Cliff.

"Twenty-one five," said Pam.

"We were in the army together," said Cliff. Tom, Arabella, and Pam all looked at him, puzzled. "The anti-war army," he said. "Back in the day."

"He told me all about you, the man at the motel," Karin said.

"Wainwrong," said Cliff.

"Wainwright," said Karin, looking confused.

"Cliff's little joke," said Pam. "He has several of them. Anybody want to play cards?"

"We're not allowed to play cards," said Karin. "And I guess I should be heading back."

It had almost stopped raining, so they let her walk. Her raincoat was still wet, but her hair was almost dry. It was only a quarter mile up the steep, slick, empty street, to Wainwright's Spyglass Lodge.

My last sunrise, thought Tom, and I missed it. He and Ara were walking on the beach. It was too cold and windy to talk. They stopped and stood, holding hands, watching the sea patiently enlarging its hole in the great stone offshore. One, two, three: it was like watching a clock.

"Do you think we should call Gwyneth?" asked Arabella.

"Let's leave her in peace," said Tom, "till after. I know her; she'll feel something is required of her, and it isn't."

"Maybe it's something required of us," said Arabella.

"Let's think about it for another day or so," said Tom. "Look, isn't that the girl?"

It was indeed the girl, stringy blond hair and all.

"What are you doing here?"

"Just taking a walk," Karin said. "I didn't mean to intrude on anyone."

"You're not intruding," said Arabella. "This is a public beach."

"Does this job always make you cry?" asked Tom.

"I'm sorry; it's not you," Karin said. "It's me. A personal loss. My boyfriend. We just broke up."

She lit a cigarette—an American Spirit. She offered Tom one, but Arabella turned it down for him.

"He doesn't smoke."

"I'm thinking of starting again," said Tom.

"Can I use your phone?" asked Karin. Tom's was in a mesh pocket on his windbreaker. "I can't use mine, because I don't want him to know where I am. I promised myself I wouldn't call him. But he broke every promise to me. I can break one."

"Then make the call, dear," said Arabella, handing her Tom's phone.

"Feel free," Tom said. "I have some extra minutes I'm never going to use."

"You shouldn't be so hard on her," said Arabella, as they watched her walk away, dialing. "She's exactly Gwyneth's age."

"How can you tell?"

"A mother can tell."

"Oh no," said Tom. "Wainwrong."

"Do you want me to tell him to go away?" asked Arabella, taking Tom's hand again; she had dropped it back on the little wooden stair that led up the last dune.

"No, of course not."

Waiwright was in the kitchen, having a cup of coffee with Cliff. Pam was scowling at them both.

"Wainwright wants to handle the arrangements," she said.

"The what?"

"The arrangements," said Wainwright, standing up and extending his giant paw. "In addition to being the mayor and the head Homey, and of course the handyman and hotelier, I operate the only licensed funeral home on this section of the coast. But aren't we getting ahead of ourselves? I came by to extend my sympathies to you all. And to offer my services, of course."

"Of course," said Tom. "How did you find about about this, anyway?"

"The girl," said Wainwright. "It's a terrible thing. It's on the Homeland Security database, too. All this stuff is tracked."

"We don't need any services," said Tom. "We're handling this on our own."

"Of course you are," said Wainwright, pulling at his beard. "But you can't do everything by yourselves. If you don't go through the Brigade, the government doesn't cover the funeral costs."

"No funeral," said Tom. "We're saying our good-byes as we go."

"No funeral, then. But what about cremation? You can't do that yourself."

"He's right, Tom," said Cliff. "He already gave us a price. It makes it easier on the girls."

"There are no girls here," said Pam.

"I want to be as helpful as I can," said Wainwright. "This is a courageous thing you're doing."

"What's courageous about it?" said Tom. "We have no choice."

"But to do it alone, like this."

"I'm not doing it alone," said Tom. "I'm with my family and friends. And Cliff is doing it, too."

"Cliff!" Wainwright looked at Cliff, shocked. "I had no idea. She didn't tell me that. You're both sidetracking the Brigade, giving up the bonus?"

"Sidestepping," said Tom. It sounded like a dance.

"I don't need no stinkin' bonus," said Cliff. "I'm a wealthy lawyer. Perhaps you haven't noticed my car, parked just outside."

"You already gave us a price," said Pam.

"That was for one," Wainwright said. "The problem is, there are regulations. Even if I could technically stuff two …"

"Can we talk about this later?" said Arabella.

"Of course," said Wainwright, brightening. "I'll see what I can do. Meanwhile …"

"Meanwhile, we who are about to die salute you," said Tom, lifting Cliff's coffee cup.

Wainwright shuffled toward the door. "Meanwhile, there's a big storm coming on. There's a pressure dome moving in. I have to get back up to the lodge and look after the shutters. You should close yours."

"One of them is broken," said Cliff. "On the ocean side. Remember, you were going to fix it?"

After Wainwright had driven away in his Ford Expedition, Tom turned to Cliff. "You never got the hemlock kit?"

"One is enough," said Cliff. "They still think I'm showing up at the Brigade. I want to surprise them."

"For real? For sure? You still want to go early with me?"

"Come on, of course for real. Isn't that what we decided? Case closed. Where are you going?"

"Give me the card to your Caddy. I'm going for a drive."

Tomorrow that stone will still be here, and so will the sea. So will the seagull, floating on the wind, looking for something to eat. While I will be—

Something to eat.

No more Tom. No more nothing.

All hole and no stone. Over. Fini.

He started the car. If there was a storm coming, it wasn't showing yet. The waves were smaller than usual, moving the tangles of seaweed in and out, like a big mop. A big fucking mop. Tom decided to skip lunch. He drove up the coast six miles toward Seal Cove, the first real town.

There was hardly any traffic. Tom passed a state trooper. As always, he felt illegal, today more so than ever. Do they know I'm going to die tonight? he thought. It gave him a great freedom: It's like, I can do anything. The ultimate outlaw, beyond the reach of the law.

He resisted the impulse to wave.

He was thinking of calling Gwyneth, dreading it. Had he left his phone with the girl on purpose? He even stopped and swiped his card at the phone on the edge of the parking lot of Seal Cove Liquors. She knows we love her, he said to himself. Then he hesitated. Why add this to her troubles?

Then he dialed anyway. He was relieved when he got Gwyneth's machine. "If you don't know what to do now, you have no business using a phone."

"Gwyn, honey," he said. "It's your dear old dad. I'm calling from Holystone Bay. Your mother and I are here at the house with Pam and Cliff. It's beautiful."

It wasn't particularly beautiful, especially not in the parking lot of Seal Bay Liquors, but honesty was not among Tom's purposes.

"I just called to say that I'm thinking of you, and I love you. Your mother, too. Bye!"

There. That done, he went inside and rewarded himself with a pack of American Spirits, the brand the girl had smoked. And on second thought, a bottle of whiskey.

When he got back to the house, the afternoon was almost gone. Cliff and Pam were playing a version of two-handed solitaire Pam had invented.

"Old Grand Dad," said Cliff admiringly. "What's the occasion?"

"Very funny. Where's Ara?"

"She went for a walk," said Pam.

The wide beach was empty, and the sea was strangely still. There was no surf at all, just a smooth glassy plate rising and falling, in and out. A windsurfer heading toward the stone was the only solid thing—his sail was transparent, so that he looked like a walker on the water, striding the waves like the gulls strode the wind.

The sea is calm tonight. The tide is full, the moon lies fair upon the straits. The Sea of Faith was once—

He couldn't remember the rest of the words. It didn't seem to matter. There was no moon anyway. It was the ending he remembered: Ah, love, let us be true to one another!

"There you are. I found you."

It was Arabella. He had gone looking for her, and she had found him. As usual; as always. Looking at her slight form in her sweatshirt and jeans, heavy breasted, narrow in the hips, her short hair faded gray but still full, he felt a tremendous rush of love, even more powerful than the sexual desire that had drawn him to her thirty years before when he had first seen her across the room at a World Bank protest.

Thirty-two.

Is this what's love is? he wondered. Not what's left after sex, and sex's promises, and sex's betrayals, but what grows from them all, like a bright plant from dark soil.

"I called Gwyneth," he said. "And left a message. Okay?"

"Does that mean I have to call her tomorrow?"

"I guess."

"She'll be angry."

"Maybe that's the best way," said Tom. "Anger." He skipped a stone across the glassy sea. "Funny. There are no waves today."

"It's the pressure dome," said Arabella. "Wainwright says it means a storm is coming."

"Wainwright's a weatherman, too?" The waves that usually boomed through the rock, cutting the hole bigger every day, every year, every century, were lapping gently. The rock was getting the evening off. The windsurfer cut through the hole, an unheard-of maneuver. "He looks like a jesus bug," said Tom. "Walking on the water."

"A what?" Ara took his hand.

"A jesus bug. When I was a kid there were lots of jesus bugs on the pond behind my grandparents' barn. I used to shoot at them with my BB gun. I didn't think anything about it."

"He made it through," said Arabella. The windsurfer caught the wind again, and headed out to sea.

"Good for him." Tom had forgotten the American Spirits. He opened the pack and lit one, while Arabella looked on disapprovingly.

He waited for her to say something.

"It's all organic," he said finally. "Indian approved."

"Are you okay?" Ara asked.

He looked at her sharply and exhaled, then said, "No."

"Me, neither."

"I love you," he said finally. "I really do."

"I know."

"You and me, Ara, we've had a great run. I don't regret a bit of it. I mean that. Not even the hard parts. I mean that."

"I know," she said. "There've been some hard parts."

"That's okay."

"This is one of them."

"Oh, honey." She was crying. "Maybe we should go back to the house."

"This one is different," she said. "This one we can't make better."

He sat with her on a rock while she cried softly. He held her hand, but after a while he felt nothing. He was like the stone on which they sat. When you throw a stone into the water, it disappears without a trace, as if it had never been.

"It's getting dark," he said finally. "Let's go in."

It was Cliff, nailing a plywood sheet over the window.

"Wainwrong's back," he said. "Bearing plywood, and other gifts."

Wainwright was in the kitchen with Pam.

"I brought some lasagna," he said. "From the restaurant. Mirta made it special. And the plywood, to replace the broken shutter. By the way, have you seen the girl?"

"Karin?" asked Pam. "No. Not since this morning."

"I was supposed to give her a ride down here, but I couldn't find her."

"She likes to walk on the beach," said Arabella.

"She's got my cell phone," said Tom.

"Well, I hope she's got her raincoat, too," said Wainwright. "There's a massive pressure dome off the coast. That's why there are no waves. It'll bring a big storm later tonight."

"You mentioned that already," said Tom.

"Well, I just felt the need to remind you. And I brought you this." He held up a DVD.

"A going away present?" Tom asked.

"It's called EZ-Exit," Wainwright said. "It replaces the DVD in the kit, which is sort of religious. With this one, you can make it the way you want it to be. There are eight programs on the disk. Different kinds of music, visuals …"

"You've tried them?" asked Tom, taking the plastic case and setting it on the coffee table next to the plain beige box. The DVD's cover showed an angel in a tie-dyed smock, playing a guitar. He looked a lot like Jerry Garcia.

"I was curious," said Wainwright. "I inherited it from York."

"Yorick?"

"The uncle who left me the funeral home. He had cancer, so he did himself in. Some of them are pretty cool. My favorite is number four, which is all Jerry Garcia."

"The Dead."

"It's a solo thing. But you get the idea. They are designed to be combined with acid or dope, or maybe even heroin; the Garcia one, who knows? I'm not saying this officially, of course."

"Of course not," said Cliff. Wainwright was the local Homeland Security Chief.

"We need to be getting ourselves ready," said Pam.

"Ever hear of the Last Supper?" asked Tom.

"I understand," said Wainwright, standing. His gray ponytail almost brushed the little house's low ceiling. He held out his big hand, first for Cliff, then for Tom. "If anybody could turn water into wine, it's you guys. I mean that."

"Thanks," said Tom.

"Thanks," said Cliff.

"It takes real courage to laugh in the face of death."

Death. There was a long silence. It was the first time anyone in the house had said the word.

"Well," said Wainwright. "Don't let the lasagna get cold. I had Mirta make it special. And Cliff, I hope you nailed that plywood down good. This is what they call the calm before the storm. You probably thought that was just a saying."

"Like death and taxes," said Tom.

"I'll never forget the last time we had a pressure dome off shore like this. It was back when Doc Azarov's boat was in my marina. Remember that Boston Whaler? That old son of a bitch had it insured for twice as much as …"

"Good night, Wainwright," said Pam, opening the door. Outside, the night was strangely still. "Thanks for the lasagna."

"And the plywood," said Cliff.

"And the Grateful Dead," said Tom.

"It's solo Garcia," Wainwright corrected. "But great stuff. There's also some jazz, if that's your thing. And Yanni. Yuck. Meanwhile, before I go, can I ask one question?"

"Shoot," said Cliff.

"You guys have never been really sick or anything, have you? Like a heart attack or cancer or something?"

Tom and Cliff both shook their heads.

"I didn't think so. You're lucky you can laugh."

"What do you mean?" Arabella asked.

"Because death is not just some abstract nothing," Wainwright said, stopping in the doorway. "It's not like a hole you fall into. It's a thing. I learned that from York. It comes after you. It's like a mad dog. It's irresistible."

"Thanks and good night," said Pam, shutting the door in his face.

"Wow," said Tom.

"What was that?" said Arabella, pouring herself another Old Grand-Dad.

"An asshole," said Pam.

"Quod erat demonstrandum," said Cliff. "What say we retire to the deck and watch the sunset?"

"Wow," said Tom, again.

The sunset wasn't a disappointment like the sunrise had been. It was in fact a winner. A huge, and hugely distant, ball of fire sank slowly into a black band of cloud, turning it rose, then bright red, like a bloodstain. They watched silently until the wind came up. The waves were back. The hole in the rock looked like a wound, red against the black of the stone.

Cliff poured another round. "Quite a show," he said. "Don't guess we get to ask for an encore."

Nobody felt like talking. They just sipped their drinks and stared at the red streak where the sun had been, growing darker and darker. The wind came up, cold and smelling of rain.

Tom lit an American Spirit. It took three matches.

"I wish you wouldn't do that," said Ara. Tom threw the cigarette away and wrapped his arms around her. The first raindrops arrived, one by one, sounding like stones hitting the plywood.

Pam stood up. "It's about that time," she said.

Both Tom and Cliff looked up, suddenly, like two deer caught in headlights.

"For supper, I mean, before the lasagna gets any colder."

The lasagna wasn't bad, either.

"Here's to good friends," said Cliff. He twirled his glass and watched the wine slip down from the sides. "Can I get serious?"

"Beats me. Have you ever tried?" Tom immediately wished he hadn't said it when Cliff took his hand. They had been friends for twenty, no, thirty years, but they had never held hands.

"There's something I want to say," said Cliff. "Which is, thank you. It has really been a privilege to be part of this foursome. I truly love you guys. My family. All of you."

"And we love you," said Arabella.

"And we love you," said Tom. He took Pam's hand; she was crying. "It's hard to leave this sweet old world. But the hardest thing is leaving friends."

"I still don't think it's fair," said Pam, breaking the circle and standing up. "I'm not going to pretend it's all right."

"No, it's not all right," said Arabella, pouring herself another drink.

"The undiscovered country," said Tom, lighting a cigarette. "Funny how we think of it that way. And yet it's the most familiar thing of all. We spend a third of our lives unconscious, in that little death called sleep."

There. He had said the word.

"We have been dead since Time began, for half of eternity, and alive for a only a few brief moments, and yet we fear what we know better than life itself. A kind of going home, back, to what we always were."

Ashes.

"That's a pretty speech," said Pam. "But you still can't smoke in the house."

"Pam!" said Cliff.

"It's okay," said Tom. "I want to step outside anyway, and watch the storm come in."

Cliff joined him. They stood in the lee of the house, out of the rain, almost.

"Are you scared, Tom?"

"I wasn't. I really wasn't. Until now. Now I'm scared shitless."

"Me, too. But we can't let the girls know. We can't lay that on them, too."

"No, no. Cliff, are you sure you want to do this?"

"I got the greetings, too, remember, buddy?"

"I mean now, tonight, with me."

"Sure. What's three days?"

"It seems like a lifetime from here."

"Damn, it does, doesn't it? But no, I'm too scared to do it alone. And can you imagine the girls having to do it twice?"

"They probably make it easy in the Brigade. I mean, with the group dynamics and all."

"Fuck that. Don't we have group dynamics here? What, are you saying you want to go join the geezers? Or that I should?"

"Neither."

"So shut the fuck up, please. What are you, chain smoking?"

"Why not? Want a drag?"

"Why not. Jesus, what is this shit! No wonder the Indians died out."

"Better not let Pam hear you say that."

"I may be old, but I'm not stupid. They'll be all right, won't they, Tom? The girls?"

"They'll be fine," said Tom. "That's the one thing I'm sure of. If it was them leaving us, we would stick together and survive, wouldn't we?"

"I just worry about Pam. Arabella is so level-headed. Pam is always lashing out at one thing or another."

"Ara will keep her on track. They're good together. They were always the real couple, you know. You and me were just the support system."

Cliff looked hurt. "That's sort of true, isn't it?"

Tom put his arm around Cliff's waist. "No. But we have to do our best and trust them to do the same. Right?"

"Right," said Cliff. "Stiff upper lip."

"Absolutely colonial," said Tom. "And now I'm getting wet. Let's go inside, buddy."

Arabella dried her hands and poured another Old Grand-Dad. The bottle was half gone. Tom lifted it, worried. "I thought you were leaving the bourbon alone," he said.

"I thought you didn't smoke," Arabella said. She gave him a peck on the cheek; it was almost girlish. "Don't look so worried; it's just for tonight. I am not about to become an old drunk."

"I have something better anyway," said Cliff, sitting back down at the table and opening his silver case. "Enough talk about death—"

There, thought Tom. We have both said it. Suddenly it seemed easy.

"—Let's talk about life!" Cliff lit a joint and passed it to Tom. "All our favorite things. Ice cream, whiskey, good friends, good dope."

"This is certainly good dope," said Tom.

"Lawyer dope," said Cliff.

Tom passed the joint to Pam while Cliff put a CD in the player. Coltrane: "My Favorite Things."

Pam passed the joint to Arabella, but she waved it away.

Tom was relieved, until he saw her fill her glass again.

"What were your favorite things?" Cliff asked.

Past tense already?

"My favorite thing was sunrise from the top of Mt. Hood," Cliff said, exhaling a huge Jamaican-style cloud toward the ceiling.

"You never went there," said Pam. "You only talked about it."

"Just knowing it was there was enough. What a run. What a stage on which to strut."

Cliff got up from the table and went into the living room. Remembering the beige box on the coffee table, Tom got a chill. "Where are you going?"

"I'm looking for my Shakespeare. There's an index."

"He's going to look up Death," said Pam, groaning.

Now they had all said it; all except Arabella.

"I don't need no stinkin' index," said Cliff, coming back into the room empty-handed. "Out, out damned spot!"

"That's not about death," Tom said. "That's about murder."

"So?" said Pam, suddenly serious.

"So? Everything in Hamlet is about death," said Cliff. "Good night, sweet prince."

"That's from Macbeth," said Arabella.

"I beg your pardon!" said Cliff.

"I mean the spot," said Arabella, giggling. "I know because my grandmother used to say it when she was washing the dishes. She was an actress until she met my grandfather. They were married for fifty years. Can you imagine?"

"Almost," said Tom. He pulled her down beside him on the couch.

"Well, it's a Macbeth sort of night," said Cliff. "To be or not to be. The undiscovered country."

"That's from Star Trek," said Tom, to lighten the mood.

"Quod erat demonstrandum," said Cliff. "Habeus corpus and all that. Listen to that wind howl."

They fell silent and listened to the wind howl. It was not a pretty sound.

"We have time for one more game of cards," said Pam. She knocked the cards on the table three times, preparing to shuffle.

As if in answer, there were three raps on the door.

Pam froze; they all froze.

Had it been imagined? There was no sound but the shrieking of the wind and the rattling of the rain on the plywood.

Then there it was again: RAP RAP RAP …

"Fucking Wainwrong's back," said Cliff.

You wish, thought Tom. He got up and opened the door. Who would have thought Death would appear as a tall, skinny girl in a yellow hood, carrying an attache case instead of a scythe, and asking:

"Can I come in? Are you ready?"