THERE ARE A thousand and one places to begin my story, but I feel as though I owe it to you to kick this off from one of the more fucked up notes, so things can only get better from there. My name is Angel Adams, and it’s my job to kill you all.

Okay, that sounds a bit harsh. I don’t really kill people. No, they all seem to manage that part just fine on their own. I merely guide Death’s marked pigeons into that great big birdcage in the sky, if you believe in that sort of thing. It’s beyond my clearance level to know what happens next. I just take the paychecks and walk them down the aisle. But as you might imagine, things tend to feel a bit like a shotgun wedding.

Let me paint you a nice little picture, for a minute. I am seventeen years old, five-foot-three, and one hundred and five pounds. So if my butter-blonde hair wasn’t enough incentive for society not to take me seriously enough already, I have the body of a claymated Christmas elf. So, when I tell someone to walk with me into the shadows of the valley of Death, you can imagine the response.

So, why me? Well, that’s a question I can answer with an opportune flashback.

Remember the fucked up part I was talking about?

Around a year ago—to this day actually, holy shit—I went shopping. I know what you’re thinking: Of fucking course you went shopping. You’re a teenage girl. Blah blah blah shoes.

Ahem, fuck off.

Yes, I was shopping. Let’s get it out of the way. I needed a dress to wear to my dad’s court hearing. Now, just so you don’t leave here thinking my dad is a cat burglar or an arsonist or some shit, I’ll elaborate. My dad is suing Diet Coke. Not Coca-Cola. Diet fucking Coke. He found what he claims to be a chicken beak at the bottom of a can he polished off three months ago on his lunch break. As a devout vegan-slash-pacifist-slash-environmental-enthusiast, he’s suing Diet Coke for mental anguish and ten thousand dollars’ worth of medical bills he owes for a series of “checkups” and “hospital visits” following the incident. I’ve agreed to testify as a witness—because, you know, he’s my goddamn dad.

On second thought…he’s an arsonist.

So anyway, I was looking for a dress. Something elegant that said “supportive”. Like something you’d wear to a debate at City Hall if your dad was running for Mayor, which is essentially what I expected the tone of the hearing to emulate. And I’ll be damned if I didn’t look everywhere. Resale shops, bargain marts, those weird strip-center outlets with the naked mannequin amputees paving the receiving line down the center of the store and waving at you with whichever hand survived the apparent hatchet attack as you ponder your life’s existential meaning. But I digress.

Finally, at the Dress Barn across from Penny’s, I found her. Black, elbow-cut sleeves and a collarbone neckline, with a nice lace pattern crossing from shoulder to shoulder. Elegant and supportive. I reached for the price tag, ready to drop two months’ babysitting money on Black Beauty, when reality slapped me like a disgruntled eight year old unhappy with the notion of ending the Uncle Grandpa marathon and going the hell to sleep.

One hundred and fifty dollars? Well…fuck.

“Ah, yes. The French lacing,” a granular, droll voice called to me as I stared idly at the trim of the skirt. It belonged to a slender man in a light gray button-up and charcoal pants. He crossed in front of me and picked up one of the sleeves of the dress, casting a slightly wrinkled thumb across the material. “One of our best pieces.”

“One of your most expensive, too.”

The man gave a soft laugh. He was older, but handsome, in an accidental sort of way. All of the individual pieces were a bit skewed, but the package as a whole somehow worked. Like an abstract piece of art which might require some historical context to fully appreciate. Like a Picasso piece. He was Picasso handsome.

“You know what—” he said, rubbing his graying chin stubble a bit as he lifted the price tag. He had a look on his face like he’d just remembered a pepperoni Hot Pocket was steaming in the microwave. “Now that I think about it, I believe this particular piece is on sale today.”

“Really?”

As there were no vibrant posters advertising something as enticing as a clothing sale in a clothing store, I found the suggestion difficult to trust. And like my dad always says: “Don’t believe any hearsay from car salesmen.”

I’ll assume the same principle applies to dress vendors.

“Well, not to everyone,” the man continued, raising a hooked eyebrow. “Special employee discount.”

That smug son-of-a-bitch. I knew it. “And this helps me how?”

“Well, if you were my employee, you could have it for free.”

“Your employee?”

“That’s right.”

There was something unsettling about the way he looked at me, though I couldn’t put my finger on it. Like those photoshopped pictures on the internet of German Shepherds smiling with human teeth. And who the hell just offers a stranger a retail job? Crazy people, that’s who. I could be an axe murderer. Or a cat person. But that dress…

I needed it. In a way I’m too ashamed to accurately describe.

“Um…I, uh…” I stuttered aimlessly.

“Sorry,” the man laughed, easing the tension. “I know this is a bit…unexpected.”

“You could say that.”

“I just let someone go this morning. She didn’t really understand the business. And I can see by your taste in fabric that you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. I’m looking for someone with brains. And the application process takes so long, you see.”

“I wasn’t exactly looking for a job.”

“But you’re looking for a dress.”

I turned back to the French lacing. It’s true, I wanted that lace like fucking pumpkin spice in my lattes. But a job? At Dress Barn? Not exactly the wind beneath my wings.

“And I’d get it for free?”

“Nothing out of your pocket.”

I chewed on my thumbnail a bit, staring at the neckline. “I don’t know.”

“Come on,” the man said, pursing his lips with an unmistakably false sincerity. “I’m really shorthanded.”

I suppose he was hoping to appeal to my humanity, or something. I looked around the store. One other employee stood behind the checkout counter, flipping her way through Good Housekeeping and clearly uninterested in whatever the hell kind of barter was happening over here. I glanced back to the dress. Then the price tag. Yep, still one-fifty. I guess a little extra cash wouldn’t hurt.

“I have to be in court on Friday. It’s what the dress is for.”

“Go to court on Friday, then.”

He seemed to have an answer for everything. I checked my phone. Two thirty-six. Dad would be home in a couple of hours.

“I’ll tell you what,” the man continued. “You can try it out for the day. If you don’t like it, you can quit.”

“I can quit…just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“And I’ll still have the dress?”

“My gift to you.”

God damnit. He had me.

“Okay, deal,” I said, hating myself a little bit.

The man smiled harder, further exposing his armada of pearly whites. I’ll never forget that smile. He lifted his hand. “Ethan,” he said, his lips curling as his mouth tightened.

“Angel,” I replied, obliging the gesture.

Ethan smirked. “Angel, huh? That’s funny.”

“How’s that funny?”

“It’s—well, you’ll get it later.”

“Uh huh,” I said, slightly reevaluating my recent decision. I pulled my phone back out from my pocket. “Well, I’ll just have to call my dad and tell him I’m apparently working for Dress Barn now.”

Though I had thought it impossible, Ethan’s smile widened. “But you don’t work for Dress Barn. You work for me.”

Somewhere in the distance, a record scratched. Glass shattered. A group of suburban housewives collectively gasped.

“Wait, what?”

Ethan stepped up to me, appearing more menacing than before. He had a good twelve inches on me, so it was hard to look anywhere but up at him and his silvery slicked-back hair. “You. Work. For me.”

“Whoa, there. Pump the breaks,” I said, raising a hand in defense. The once-bright teal of my fingernails was faded and chipped, and I hate that I remember that.

“I offered you a job,” Ethan said coolly. “And you accepted.”

“I accepted a job with Dress Barn.”

“I never said Dress Barn.”

“But you…I…alright, then I’m outta here.”

It was a monumental waste of my time to argue. I turned and stormed out of Dress Barn, shaking my head at how stupid I had been. That geriatric hairbag.

“Don’t forget your dress,” Ethan said to me as I rounded the corner of the entrance. He was standing outside, holding the dress over his arm, like he had been waiting for hours. I spun back to face the interior of the store, then back to Ethan, whose teeth were out again. I was losing my damn mind.

“Keep it,” I said, pushing past him and on to my car.

I pulled the keys from my pocket, clicking open the door to my ’09 Sebring. I fell into the seat and shoved the key into the ignition, steaming angry.

“It’s yours, whether you want it or not,” Ethan said from the passenger seat. I nearly choked to death on nothing. I swear the door hadn’t opened. In fact, as I looked to the corner just below the passenger window, the lock was still in place.

“That was the deal,” Ethan finished.

 “How—in the hell—” I said, gasping for breath.

“We’re about to become great friends, you and I,” Ethan said, laying the dress in my lap.

“Who are you?” I asked, staring into his black eyes.

 Ethan smiled. “I think it’s best if I show you.”

I said nothing, still racking my brain for a reasonable explanation of Ethan’s wizardry. He’s a goddamn twin. There’s one still back at Dress Barn. And another leaning on that wall. Several twins. No, triplets. But how did he get in my car? Okay, they’re a set of burgling triplets.

“Drive,” Ethan ordered, reaching and turning the key over in the ignition, starting my car.

“Excuse me?”

“Drive…or I will.”

I laughed, equally in doubt and fear. “Yea. I don’t think so.”

Ethan sighed and pointed to the gear stick, and it shifted itself into reverse. What the bloody fuck. I stomped on the brake, leaning my body as far away from that warlock as I could. The tires started spinning as Ethan’s long finger remained pointed. I could do nothing but scream.

Where are the fucking people around here?

A cloud of burnt rubber engulfed the Sebring, until all I could see was a thick patch of gray, which darkened with each passing second.

“Okay!” I yelled over the squealing. “I’ll drive! Just stop!”

The tires instantly quit spinning, and the stick shifted back into park. Ethan then curled his shitty finger back into his shitty hand. “The corner of Magnolia and Lockwood,” Ethan’s deep voice boomed.

I took a second to compose myself, processing the fuckery afoot, when the gear stick shifted back into reverse.

“Jesus, I’m fucking going!” I said, throwing a hand to the shifter. The vehicle crawled backwards as I pulled out of the Dress Barn lot. Ethan checked his watch again.

“You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?” I asked, looking over to Ethan. He was staring out the window at nothing in particular.

“No,” he said. I waited for him to elaborate. He didn’t.

“Then what are we doing?”

“Magnolia and Lockwood.”

“Are you going to tell me how you do that weird shit?”

“Yes.”

I cleared my throat. “Really?” I asked in disbelief. He didn’t answer. He just nodded.

“Turn here,” he said once we reached Magnolia Avenue, as if I was an idiot. I grew up on Chicago’s coastline. I raced pink Tiny Toon Adventures and Rocket Power bicycles up and down Magnolia Avenue for years, back when pigtails were cute and Dress Barn was Blockbuster Video. I could get to Lockwood Drive with my eyes closed, though I wasn’t about to give Ethan any ideas.

“Why don’t you just tell me where we’re going?” I asked, interrupting my more fearful thoughts. This prompted the steering wheel to turn on its own, veering the vehicle toward Rush University Medical Center. We were going to a hospital. I hated hospitals.

“Come with me,” Ethan said once the vehicle parked itself. He opened the passenger door and walked to the entrance, wasting no time waiting for me. I watched as he approached the automatic doors. That fucking swede.

I leaned over and slammed the passenger door shut, ready to peel out and leave all of the ridiculousness behind. I turned the key in the ignition…and nothing happened. I tried again. Nothing. Again. Again. Click. Click.

“Need a jump?” Ethan said, standing next to the driver-side door. The window was down.

“No, I—I was just—”

Ethan opened the door and pulled me up by my hand. He then reached in and yanked the key from the ignition. “We don’t have time. This way,” he said, pulling me behind him.

“You can’t—treat people like this,” I said, struggling to break free. “I have rights! I’ll sue! Do you hear me? My family sues everyone! I know how!”

Ethan pulled me in through the entrance. I put up a fight, but somehow not enough to catch the receptionist’s attention.

“Help!” I screamed. “He’s kidnapping me!”

The receptionist clicked away on her computer screen, unfazed by my outburst.

“You work at a fucking hospital!” I yelled between struggles. “You’re supposed to help people! Help me, goddamnit!”

“She can’t hear you,” Ethan said. “And neither can he.”

I kicked and screamed past one of the guards, whose attention seemed to be greater spent on using his thumbs to dislodge something from behind his molar.

Ethan led me down the bright hallway and around the corner, through a set of double-doors and beyond the visitors’ threshold. Everyone we passed seemed to be far too entranced with their own bland existences to help the distressed teenage girl being dragged across the floor by the creepy asshole sorcerer. Or at the very least, acknowledge the incident.

“Here we are,” Ethan said, striding into the emergency room. He steered me past the information desk and into one of the back corners. Ethan pulled the white curtain back to reveal a mangled body lying on a bed and breathing through a tube, and he let go of my hand.

I stared, fixated on the injured man. I hadn’t the slightest idea why we were there. If I wanted to see that shit, I had HBO.

In moments, the poor bastard flat-lined. One of the nurses ran inside, ignoring Ethan and I as she called for help. Several doctors joined her, until a small congregation separated us from the dying man.

“Hello, Joseph,” Ethan said, looking just past me at the back wall. I turned to see a clean-cut balding man standing in the corner, looking at the hospital bed. He was wearing a Pizza Hut polo, buttoned to the neckline. He turned to face Ethan, a look on his face like my dad’s when he found that chicken beak. He wasn’t alone.

“Who are you?” Joseph asked, looking from Ethan to me, then back to the nest of doctors.

“Can’t you guess?” Ethan asked, smiling.

Joseph looked back to me, then to Ethan again. “Where am I?” he asked.

“Well, that’s a complicated question,” Ethan laughed. “You see, part of you is laying on that bed there. And the other part…well, that’s why I’m here. It’s not looking so good for the part of you on the bed, Jo.”

Joseph looked down to his hands, then to me again, then back to the hospital bed.

“I’m not—” Joseph began, taking a deep breath. “I don’t—understand.”

“Come on, Jo—” Ethan said. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

“I, uh—I was driving. Taking a pizza to some lady. Pepperoni and pineapple.”

“Egh. Probably for the best that wasn’t delivered, am I right?” Ethan said.

“And—” Joseph began, but stopped and swallowed. His eyes widened as he seemed to have put the pieces together, which was something I was having equal trouble accomplishing.

“No!” Joseph yelled, trying to shove the doctors out of the way. “No! No, I can’t be! I can’t!”

Ethan sighed and checked his watch again. “Yep, you’re dead,” Ethan said, in the way you’d tell a friend his mother called. “No two ways about it.”

Dead? I repeated it in my head. This man is…dead?

Joseph ran to Ethan, pulling on his coat. “No, I need to go back. I’ll quit my job. I’ll join the church. Episcopalian. I’m not ready for this. I—I’ll adopt an orphan. I’ll send money to those Venezuelans on television. I’m not ready!”

Ethan calmly removed Josephs shaking hands from his coat, then brushed the collar off. “Pull yourself together, Jo. I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

"What do you mean, I’ll be fine?” Joseph panicked, “What’s going to happen to me?”

“A little of this, a little of that. I’m not exactly sure, myself. Probably nothing too bad.”

“Probably? What the hell do you mean, probably?”

“I mean, probably. What do you want me to say?”

Joseph sat down on the floor, pulling at his hair a bit. “…it came out of nowhere.”

“I know, Jo,” Ethan said, sitting down on the floor next to him. “It always does.”

Joseph started crying, then looked up at me again. “Who’s she?”

I opened my mouth, but not before Ethan could cut me off. “She’s in training. New hire.”

Joseph gave a half-hearted laugh. And then another. I don’t know what was so goddamn funny.

“See, there you go,” Ethan said, smiling as he put an arm around Joseph’s shoulder. “Now, what do you say we get out of here?”

Joseph sniffled a bit and wiped his nose. “Alright,” he groaned, trembling.

Ethan gave Joseph one of those soft chin-punches that seemed to say “cheer up” in nineteen-eighties gesture-speak. He then stood up and pulled Joseph to his feet. “On you go,” Ethan said, pointing to one of the open doorframes. All I could see was black space.

Joseph took a step, then looked back to me. I couldn’t think of anything profound to say, so I waved. Like a jackass. Still, Joseph smiled and walked ahead. Ethan smacked him on the ass and said “good game, champ,” giving Joseph a bit of a skip to his step. The whole thing was fucking bizarre.

"And he was never seen again,” Ethan said, watching as Joseph disappeared into the black void. I looked back to the hospital bed. Several doctors were removing their facemasks and gloves. Time of death…three oh-seven.

“You think the psych-ward could pencil me in?” I asked Ethan, feeling a bit like what I imagine the kid in The Sixth Sense must have been going through when he saw that dead woman in his kitchen rifling through the cabinets.

Ethan walked up and placed an arm around me. “You won’t have time,” he said. “You’ve got a busy day.”

“So, are you Death?”

“I’m Ethan.”

“And you killed that guy.”

“I didn’t kill him. Weren’t you paying attention? He was already dead. I helped him move on. You don’t want them all lingering around after the fact.”

“I think I’m losing my mind.”

“Angel…everything you saw was very real.”

“So why can’t anyone see us? Am I dead, too?”

“No, no. Of course not.”

“So what am I? What are you?”

“You are an employee. And you can think of me as your manager.”

“I quit.”

“What?”

“I quit. You said I could quit. I. Quit.”

“Don’t quit.”

“I motherfucking quit. I quit!”

“Okay, you quit?”

“I. QUIT.”

“Fine,” Ethan said, pulling an elaborate black pocket watch from his coat pocket. “Three oh-eight,” he said, as if he just clocked-in a runner’s lap time. “You can go ahead and follow your buddy Jo there through that door.”

I felt my jaw drop. “What?”

Ethan shooed me away with his hand. “Go on.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“You quit, right?”

“You said I could!”

“And you can,” Ethan said, placing an arm around my shoulder again. “So go.”

He pointed back to the black door space.

I shook him off, staring at the blackness. “That’s how it is, then? I quit, I die?”

“Look, I don’t make the rules. I just—”

I gritted my teeth and took a meaty swing at that slimy fuck, who ducked just in time. He popped back up quick and grabbed my wrist before I could take a second shot.

“Like nobody’s ever tried that one before,” he said. So I spat at him, catching him right on the side of his smug fucking face. Suddenly, his smile warped into disgust.

“Let go of me,” I demanded, to which he surprisingly complied. Not one to waste time in these hostage situations, I sprinted away, glancing behind me at the entrance of the hospital wing.

Ethan was gone.

t�Y[��z�