“How much longer?” asks Beau. He is slumped across a row of chairs, staring at the ceiling. Frankie is similarly slumped, though she has pulled a chair into the middle of the room, her feet propped up next to his. Together, they form a right angle.

Her eyes are closed, head bent awkwardly to the side, though he’s sure she isn’t sleeping. The coat she wears swallows her whole, but if he watches closely, he can see her shoulders rise and fall with her breath. There is a softness to her features that he hasn’t seen since they were children. She’s always worn her hair short, almost boyishly, but she’s recently let it grow out, and it drapes across her shoulder, messy and tangled. He has the urge to brush it away, press his thumb against the smooth column of her neck so he can feel her pulse. Instead, he fidgets with the pack of cigarettes in his pocket.

In repose, wearing a too-large coat, her forehead relaxed, and her eyes closed, Frankie Hart doesn’t look so scary.

He feels a swelling of emotion in his chest, a gratefulness he knows he will never be able to articulate. He’s not foolish; he knows Frankie has her own reasons to help him, not the least of which is his bank account. He basically offered her a blank check in exchange for her services.

But, even with such incentive, she didn’t have to help him. She didn’t have to interrupt her Saturday night because Beau Astor made a mistake. She was well within her rights to refuse him. He half expected her to do just that when he sat down at the table. She scowled up at him, cheeks red and eyes narrowed at his impertinence. His mother would have scolded him for sitting down uninvited, for imposing his presence on someone—a young woman, no less—who so clearly did not want it.

His father would have scolded him, too, only it would have been because of Frankie’s lack of familial wealth and social clout; politeness wouldn’t have factored into it.

Beau wasn’t thinking of his parents when he approached Frankie, however. He was thinking of the tattered remains of their friendship. He was thinking about the girl he knew before the churlish need to tease her arose, before the embarrassment that his grades were not quite as good or his jokes were not quite as funny took hold in the back of his mind, voiced by a rough timbre that sounded eerily similar to his father’s.

He was thinking that some bonds transcend poor choices. He was hoping that some friendships remain, even if they sit forgotten on a shelf, collecting dust and grime until they’re discovered one day in a fit of spring cleaning.

He thinks warmly of the summer before eighth grade. He doesn’t remember how he and Frankie toiled away all eighty-four days of summer break, but he does remember that it contained hours at the arcade, wasting quarters on a game neither of them would win.

He remembers ice cream cones on the pier, their feet dangling over the edge, as they talked about comic books. He remembers a few scraped knees and at least one unfortunate bike crash involving Mrs. Howell’s mailbox.

He tries to remember when it all went sideways. Was it when he suddenly got taller than her? When his hair darkened and girls started to smile shyly at him with cherry-glossed lips?

Maybe it was after the carnival on the boardwalk when he won a goldfish, and he said he wanted Frankie to have it, knowing his father would sooner chuck it into the toilet before he let his son waste his time on such an insignificant creature. Frankie leaned up on her toes and gave him a kiss that tasted of cotton candy. His lips felt sticky, his stomach queasy, and his palms suddenly so sweaty that he almost dropped the plastic bag with the goldfish. The goldfish continued swimming in bored circles, and Beau suddenly developed a craving for cotton candy.

Perhaps it was when his father gave him the Talk?

That is, the Talk about responsibility and how to manage his own money (Beau learned about sex as all Astors learn about sex: in school, from a qualified healthcare professional, and from a fair bit of hands-on learning).

This reminds him of Penelope and her sudden death. He knew they were going to sleep together from the moment he held the car door open for her. He confirmed it at dinner when her hand strayed to his thigh, and she laughed too loudly at his jokes. When they made their way back to his house, she smiled slyly at him as he nonchalantly mentioned that his parents weren’t home, and she eagerly accepted the invitation for after dinner drinks.

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This date has gone horribly awry, he thinks. His whole life has gone horribly awry, he amends.

“Why are you staring at me?” asks Frankie.

Startled by her sudden alertness, he jumps slightly before crossing his arms with an awkward, affected casualness. “I was just wondering if you still have a scar on your elbow? The one from Mrs. Howell’s mailbox?”

“You mean the scar I got after you dared me to ride with no hands, even though you knew that I would crash?”

“I didn’t know—”

“No. We have spells for that. I got rid of it years ago.” She sits up and stretches, looking over at the clock, a faceless circle with a soft ticking sound coming from its insides. “I reckon we’ve been in here long enough.” She glances at Beau. “I’m going to check.”

As Frankie opens the door and leans out to peer at the countdown, Beau stands up to stretch the stiffness from his shoulders. He looks hopeful as she ducks back inside the room, but she just scowls.

“We still have another two hours.” With a harrumph, she throws herself into a seat.

Beau sits next to her and lets his head fall back until it rests on the wood-paneled wall with a soft thud. “What if we just left? Would anyone even notice?”

Frankie leans her head against the wall as well, folding her arms. The coat bunches up around her neck, the stiff collar pressing against her cheek. “Trust me, I want to get moving again too, but it’s too risky. They’ll be paying attention to me now.”

There is a beat of silence.

The ticking of the faceless clock fills the space.

“So, you’re a Reaper-in-Training?”

“Yep.”

Tick, tock. Tick….

“What does that entail?”

“Quite a few hours of training.”

Tick, tock.

“And then?”

“Well, then I’ll be certified,” she says plainly.

“Do you have to take, like, a test or something?”

“No.” There is a moment of silence, and he looks at Frankie, whose own gaze is resolutely aimed at a spot on the opposite wall. “There’s a…sacrifice,” she adds eventually, in a small voice.

“Like, you have to sacrifice something?”

“Sort of.” She sighs and hugs her arms tighter to her chest. “A sacrifice of me. I’ll be the sacrifice.”

“You’re going to die?” he asks breathlessly; the realization squeezes his lungs just as her curse did in ninth grade.

“That’s one way to look at it.”

“What’s the other way?”

“Certification.” She sucks in a deep breath and shifts in her seat, bringing her knees up to her chest. “Please stop asking about this.”

“Did you choose this?”

She gives him a sideways look. “It’s tradition.”

He swallows and then says, with a worried line in between his eyebrows, “Your family chose this for you.”

He had intended it to be a question, but it comes out as a statement, a truth that draws him closer to her.

He knows the feeling of having dreams stymied by family obligations. Except in his case, it’s all very banal: a rich family expecting their only son and heir to follow the family path of ivy-league schools and a law degree. But Frankie’s family will be the death of her. She is already gone; her fate is sealed. He hates them for taking her away. “That’s messed up.”

She shrugs, the movement jagged but well-practiced, and says, “All families are psychotic in their own ways.”

“Mine wants me to become a lawyer.”

“You mean they care about your future and want you to succeed in life?” she says with a short, humorless laugh. “How awful!”

He grunts at her sarcasm but smirks. “I know. I’m a terrible cliché.”

She lifts a shoulder. “Isn’t everybody?”

“Frankie…” He reaches out, and her eyes widen with the realization of his intention, even though he isn’t entirely aware of it himself. Then again, Frankie could always read his thoughts, even before he thought them. His mind conjures a wild, feverish image that must be writ large on his face, perhaps even projected against his pupils like a movie screen: him leaning in to press his lips against hers.

He could do it, so easily. They are so close to each other.

Her mouth parts, just slightly. He thinks of the last time her lips touched his—a too-sticky meeting of mouths that still makes his cheeks burn with regret that he was too young to know what to do next. He stopped talking to her soon after that. Does she still taste like cotton candy?

But then a tear escapes her eye, and, instead of leaning closer, he touches his thumb to her cheek, wiping it away. “I’ll still be able to see you. Right?”

“Yes.” She turns away from him. “Don’t be silly. You can’t get rid of me that easily. We have a contract. I’ll haunt you until the day you die.” She laughs gently. “Besides, you’ll have a passport to Death, soon. You’ll be able to come and go as you please.”