Officer Wallace turned his head again, and in that brief second, Lani realized something quite shocking: not everyone had lied to her. She knew, somehow, that Officer Wallace couldn’t see her barefoot acquaintance, that Death was indeed who it claimed to be, and that this night would have profound implications on the rest of her life. All that came in a flash, of course, as important revelations often do.

And although that revelation presented its most grave face first, behind its seriousness it hinted at a whole spectrum of other faces—as startling and eerie as the witch doctor’s mask, others—mere insignificant slapstick, like Bozo the Clown’s. None-the-less, something beyond her comprehension, but mysterious and impressive was afoot.

The big policeman turned back around, a perplexed look on his face.

“I was speaking in abstract terms,” she said, shaken, trying to rebound, afraid Officer Wallace would think her wacko—radio a 911 to the canvas camisole team.

She cast a quick, worried, and awe-filled glance at Death. It was smiling at her now, a self-satisfying smile, a shit-eating grin if ever she saw one, a …well, anyway.

She looked back at Officer Wallace. He blinked, then started to speak, “I …“

“Never mind,” Lani interrupted, with feigned courage. “What were the questions they wanted you to ask?” She swallowed hard. A myriad of questions, theories, debates, and suggestions were contorting her brain into a barely functioning semblance of its old self.

Officer Wallace referred to the small notebook he had been holding. “Was Mr. Jones drinking anything?” He looked up. “Did he appear under the influence of alcohol or any drugs?”

“No,” Lani said instantly, so quickly that it surprised her. She continued, “He was as straight as …you are.”

“You’re sure?”