Beach Calamity by Thad DeVassie
Nobody recognized the reaper without his black-hooded cloak.
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I no longer harangue every desk nurse at every hospital for a taxonomic breakdown of her bills. I don’t ask for the numbers of the Benadryl, the water cups, the abdominal touches done with gloved hands. I am the most American I’ve ever been—she costs what she costs and I eat it.
Nobody recognized the reaper without his black-hooded cloak.
She can transform, weigh so much, weigh nothing at all.
I looked down at Fay, who was again eyeing the gumball machine. While she did that, I glanced over at the door, plotting an escape, possibly before our gear was all the way loaded into the truck. She wasn’t even being bad, but it wouldn’t be the first time her behavior—or the risk of it worsening—forced me to flee a public location and abandon an adult obligation prematurely.
I try to ask the scientists questions, but I wasn’t programmed for small talk.