The most annoying thing about death is all the paperwork involved. Every morning, Lyle and I make the trip to the warehouse to sift through today’s files and see whose soul we get to summon and send into the light.
“Harold Lassiter, aged eighty-six,” I read from the list of names. “Heart attack. Leaves behind a loving wife, Katherine, and a German shepherd, Goober.”
“Maya Hernandez, twenty-one,” Lyle adds. “Car wreck. Leaves behind a little sister, Leslie, and an absent father. I think I remember her mother somewhere…” He glances around the massive warehouse, at the rows and rows of filing cabinets detailing the fates of billions. Other interns scramble around us, trying to make sure they get to all of our clients on time. Hanging above, a clock the size of a semi truck ticks away the seconds.
I remember first walking into the warehouse at Deathworkers Agency. The place is so big that, in my three years here, I have yet to fi