"Imagine a guy at a party telling you a story from his childhood. He really wraps it in nostalgia, complete with sights and sounds you can identify with from your own background. You're feeling the warmth and the comfort and the almost thereness of what he's describing, even though you've never actually been to the place he's telling you about. It's like you could have been there, and maybe you were someplace so very much like it."

"Kinda the what Stranger Things did with the whole 80s vibe. Even 90s kids could identify, because a lot of the stuff was similar."

"Exactly. Now, picture all this warmth and comfort and then it just...vanishes."

"What the fuck?"

"Yep. Gone. Oh, the sunshine was perfect? Well, here's a thunderstorm, suckers."

"But, why would anybody like that?"

"Because in the thunderstorm, hiding between lightning strikes, is a darkness that contains toothy things that need someone to eat."

"I don't see how that's appealing."

"We all have teeth. Maybe we're someone's monster. I remind people that sometimes memories have teeth, too, and sometimes I show that what's hiding under the bed can be real."

Seconds pass between the thump thump of wheels hitting each joint in a concrete highway.

Above her, there's a rhythm and sway to a plastic bag floating in the air. It fuzzes in and out of the now and the here; clear plastic becomes moss and oak and tubing is a vine snaking down to wrap around her arm.

There is no panic.

She blinks, and the tree is a stainless steel rod bolted to the ceiling and the darker patch of bark becomes a smaller, thicker bag slowly leaking burgundy into her veins.

There is only calm.

While she floats, a man she can't see drives them towards a place she likely never will.

She stirs when nimble fingers pinch and pull where fingers were never meant to be. There is uncomfortable pressure in places she can't look; gauze and ruby-red leaves have fallen from the tree overhead. She's on the forest floor, covered.

There is no pain.

She never realizes the constant wail isn't a gale in the grove until it stops completely; there's no wind, and hasn't been.

There are no trees.

Her perspective changes.

It's odd, sitting in a folding jump seat, watching everyone working so diligently. They're frozen in place, the thump thump of wheels on Interstate aren't thumping anymore. She stares at herself, strapped to a gurney with open eyes, knowing they still see fading lights through falling leaves.

"Autumn is the prettiest time of year, I think."

She turns, shocked at the sound of a man's voice.

Her visitor sits next to a crimson-stained paramedic. The medic's face is stony with concentration and determined focus; her hands are slippery and sliding but sure in their work.

Nodding a hello, the impossible newcomer reaches into the inner pocket of his suitcoat. He is fastidious, wiry, cocky and sure as he lights a cigarette removed from a sterling case.

"I find it fascinating what people think in these moments. People never cease to amaze me, truly. Care for one, dear?" He offers her the already lit smoke, but she declines wordlessly with a barely perceptible shake of her head. "Can't blame you. Most people refuse, unless they've been lifetime smokers. Some people take one to be able to sit here a little longer. The thing is, we aren't going anywhere until I'm done anyway. No need to put on airs about it. Either you're a smoker, a non-smoker, or a reformed smoker. I suppose if you're reformed, though, no one wants relapse here at the very end, would you think?"

She thought he was rambling, but his words flowed in the most interesting way. Each syllable, every breath, was clipped and timed in perfect neutrality. His accent was a study in accentlessness. It reminded her of old black and white movies that used to play on tv late at night when she was a kid.

"Do you ever miss the days of three or four channels?"

The question floats her way in a haze, carried by North Carolina tobacco and an otherwise utter stillness.

She doesn't answer, instead turning her gaze from sightless eyes on the gurney to glare at the unwelcome visitor.

Silence holds along with their stares.

Finally, she speaks.

"Malach ha-maweth. You're early."

He grins, leaning back in his uncomfortable chair. Primly, one leg crosses the other at the knee. "I do so love the old Names. Taxes and I, my dear. You know the rules." He draws on his cigarette, nearly reaching its end.

A rueful chuckle from her chases his inhale, and it's a rare thing indeed for him to be caught by surprise. He cocks his head in fascination.

She addresses him politely. "This isn't my day. There were promises made and bargains struck."

"You're in the ledger."

"Someone made a mistake."

He frowns. "Mistakes are uncommon."

She grins. "But not impossible."

"I don't bargain."

This time, she laughs in absolute joy. "Different division, same company, I think. You're in the mailroom, delivery boy. I deal with the top floor."

"Basement, more likely."

It's her turn to tilt her head, nodding at his point. "Maybe. But what's up and what's down when you're drowning?"

"To stick with your metaphor, how long do you expect to stay afloat, my dear?"

"That doesn't matter. All that matters for you is 'not today,' and stop calling me dear. Check your ledger again."

He takes a final puff, drops his butt and grinds it into the diamondplate of the steel floor. Reaching into his other suitcoat pocket, he pulls out a small leather-bound journal. Thumbing through it, he turns to a page. Frowning, he flips to several more pages.

"This is most irregular."

"I'm sure it is."

"Well," he snaps closed his book, tucking it back into his pocket. "I offer my apologies. I'll see myself out."

She gasps, startling the woman covered in her blood. Blinking dried eyes into focus, the patient stares where the visitor had been mere seconds before.

The paramedic is surrounded by the smell of cigarette smoke and feels a shiver run down her spine. While that is odd enough, it's the sound of laughter from a woman she knew to be near dead that stains dreams for weeks to come.