As the water of the sullen Lethe laps at the anguished sides of my boat I wait in silence. My next passenger approaches. Nothing but fear sits in the thick melancholic atmosphere. The wood of ages that makes up my oar creaks painstakingly as I lean on it, pushing it deep into the rocky riverbed. I see my victim and know his name. Through the centuries I have seen many a face, and though each face is different each thought is the same.

This passenger is angry. I do not lift my head to even glance at his face, but I can imagine it, I’ve seen many like it before. His name is Gregory Ball—though I know this I do not know how I know it. His face will be flushed, almost lifelike, a façade. His cheeks will be puckered in his obese face. I know he is terrified, and furious that he is terrified. He shouts with all his might, his lungs thrust the air violently, but the words seem quiet here…oh so quiet.

He demands to be let free.

He cannot be let free.

I extend my left hand to the furious figure. My white bones uncloaked by the black robes I have always worn. His words halt, as if frozen by a swift wind. He declines my hand and angry tears roll down his face. He chokes on the rage that bubbles to the surface once more.

I grant him one of my words. “Come.” I say.

And he does, weeping and furious. The boat leaves the last frontier of the land of the living. We move slowly to the land of the dead.