The Big Reap

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The last thing I remembered was dying.

Autumn, 1944. A bitter cold October day. A bustling Manhattan street. Me invisible among the throng, one of the many homeless and bedraggled whose presence is willfully undetected by those more fortunate than they, as if the condition were contagious and acknowledgment the mode of transmission. I’d spent my last few weeks among the living camped outside my beloved Elizabeth’s new abode, desperate for even a glimpse of her — for she refused to see me, too, though her reasons were far better than those of the passers-by. I’d spent my nights inside a bottle, hoping whatever rotgut I could lay my hands on would soothe my soul and dull the aching chill that leeched upward through the park benches and concrete stoops upon which I lay my head.

But there was nothing I could do to soothe my soul. Because that soul was no longer mine to soothe. I’d bargained it away to a demon named Dumas in a desperate attempt to save my dying wife. It worked, for what it’s worth. But I was unprepared for what it wound up costing.

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