He sat with me afterward, as she lay in the other room, skin cooling. We’d moved to a house by then. Garden out back, long drive through trees in front. She was setting to retire. I had already done so a couple years back. We had planned to travel, to see more of the world. There was so much we hadn’t seen, so much we hadn’t done. I missed her in the past, and the future, if that makes sense. Sad both ways.

We sat on my sofa, his hand on mine. He looked younger than me, by decades truth be told. He said he aged slower than most. Not me. I’d aged right on schedule. Grown a nice belly, lost most of the hair, wore spectacles to see the labels on my and Sophie’s medicine.

Sophie, despite being technically a month my elder, had always looked younger than me, I can tell you. Almost as young as Death himself. She’d been so beautiful, so energetic. And now she was gone, and I was truly, desperately, alone.

“You made it quick, yeah?” was all I could say.

“Of course, mate. I do what I can,” he said, and I nodded, and cried. He put his arm over my shoulder as I slobbered and despaired, hating life, hating him.

As he was leaving, I stopped him, and you could say it was pity, but it wasn’t that, it was anger, and selfishness. That’s the truth of it.

“Don’t come,” I said. “To the funeral. Don’t come.”

He didn’t turn, didn’t look at me. Just stood by the open door, head bowed. A dark figure against the pale morning light, an empty man, a lonely man. He nodded, but then said, “I’d like to. I loved her.”

“No, thanks,” I answered. “Don’t think I want to see you again, actually.” And, without another word between us, I went to say goodbye to my wife, to wet her dress with my tears.

Nearly twenty years went by after that day, and I regretted my words every one of them. I missed Sophie, and I missed my friend.

Because I never did see him again.

Until the end, that is.

“COME FOR ME, then?” I said.

I was in my late eighties, not sure which exact one because I’d stopped counting; and besides, they’d been eventless years.

I was in the garden, watching bees steal pollen from Sophie’s flowers. The place was more overgrown now than when she’d tended it, but I was old, and tired, and could only do so much to keep it going.

I sensed him before I saw him, standing by the back door, watching me watch the bees.

He walked toward me without a word, sat down lightly in the garden chair neighboring my own, a small table between us with a glass of iced tea perspiring on its top. We sat in silence, watched the sun lower in the sky, watched the birds flitter about, watched the long grass lean in the breeze.

“Drink?” I said, still not looking at his face, not wanting to see what expression he’d be wearing. “Iced tea is the strongest I have these days, I’m afraid.”

He said nothing a moment, and I waited, listening to the wind rustle the tall flowers. “I’m sorry, John,” he said finally, and I heard the despair in his voice. It sent a chill through me.

“Nah,” I said lightly, holding back my fear. “I’m ready. Have been since Sophie passed. No point, really.”

“No,” he said. “I’m sorry about everything. If I could… I had no choice, mate…”

I bowed my head and started to weep. Just an old man crying in his garden. Pathetic, really.

“It’s okay,” I said, and wiped my face with my poorly laundered shirtsleeve. “You’re still my best friend, and I understand. I’m sorry I told you not to come to Sophie’s funeral. That was wrong of me.”

I could see him nodding in my peripheral vision and, finally, I turned to face him.

He’d aged. Not as much as I, but certainly more than I’d expected. Yes, it was a hard life, I suppose. Must take its toll like anything.

“So what’s it to be then?” I asked, smiling at him, feeling warmth when he smiled back. “The old heart failure? Like our piano tutor? Not very original, that.”

He laughed, and the sky lightened. “No, John, I’m not here to take you.”

I must admit, for all my talk, I really wasn’t ready. I was actually quite scared being honest, and so was thankful to hear him say it. “No?” I said, not sounding too relieved, lest he give me shit about it.

“No,” he said, then nodded toward the edge of the garden. “Have a look, mate.”

Sophie stood there, young and beautiful and vibrant as the day I’d first met her. I was astounded, and leapt to my feet in happy surprise, a surprise quickly doubled by the spryness of my upward spring, at how the knee joints hadn’t creaked when I bounced up, how my back hadn’t murmured a complaint, at how very detailed the flowers were.

I turned to him and almost laughed at his smile of victory, of pleasure. He held out his hand and I took it, helped him up to stand beside me.

“You said we all died alone,” I said, joy and strength filling me like light.

“Not my friends, they bloody don’t,” he said, and put a firm hand on my shoulder. “Mind if I stay a while?”

“Not at all, mate,” I replied, growing brighter by the second.

I felt Sophie’s hand slip into mine, felt the soft heat of her, and together we three looked on, in wonder, at the beautiful…

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

SO MANY FOLKS to thank, but I’ll keep it brief, because if you’re anything like me you have other books to read, am I right? Let’s go:

First off, thanks to my friend Josh Malerman for the incredible introduction. I’ve known Josh a few years now but if you’d told me when I first picked up Bird Box back in 2014 that the author of that straight-up classic would, one day, not only be my good friend but also be writing the introduction to my second story collection? I’d have said you were more nuts than a squirrel’s nest in high summer. I’m so very grateful for him taking the time and for his incredible support.

Secondly, want to thank my amazing support at home – to my lovely, amazing wife and my warm-hearted, fast-growing son – thank you guys. Especially to Stephanie, who puts up with all the crazy (and there’s quite a bit of it to put up with).

To my Patrons – thank you all for the support. Gonna give special shout-outs to my Stalkers: Alexander Mutz, Juha Kivela, and Adrienne Silk. Thank you so very much for hanging in there with me and believing in me. Can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.

He already got the dedication but what the hell, I’ll thank him twice. Laird Barron, thank you brother. Also want to give some shout-outs to some authors and readers who have been amazingly supportive by reading rough, early work and helping me make it better: Thomas Joyce, John Foster, Douglass Wynne, Paul Tremblay, John McFarland, Sean O’Connor, Duane Pesice, Jake Marley and many others who I’m forgetting, I’m sure. I’ll get you next time!

Random shout-outs: Alessandro Manzetti, Jose Angel De Dios García, Jakub Němeček, Justin Burnett, Richard Chizmar, Sadie Hartmann, Mike Davis, John Langan, Jon Padgett, Kelly Young, Andy Davidson, Brendan Deneen, Aaron French...man, I could go on forever.

Thanks to my agent, Elizabeth Copps, who works so hard to get my work into the right hands.

Lastly, as it pertains to the book you’re holding, a huge thanks to Francois Vaillancourt for the wonderful artwork gracing the cover, and for Steve Berman, who took me on and gave these stories a home.