Once, when hiking with his family, Rowan had gone off on his own and had encountered a mountain lion. The tight feeling in his chest now, as well as the weak feeling in his loins, had been exactly the same. Fight or flight, his biology said. But Rowan had done neither. Back then, he had fought those instincts and calmly raised his arms, as he had read to do, making himself look larger. It had worked, and the animal bounded away, saving him a trip to the local revival center.
Now, at the sudden prospect of a scythe before him, Rowan had an odd urge to do the same—as if raising his hands above his head could frighten the scythe away. The thought made him involuntarily laugh out loud. The last thing you want to do is laugh at a scythe.
“Could you direct me to the main office?” the man asked.
Rowan considered giving him directions and heading the opposite way, but decided that was too cowardly. “I’m going there,” Rowan said. “I’ll take you.” The man would appreciate helpfulness—and getting on the good side of a scythe couldn’t hurt.
Rowan led the way, passing other kids in the hall—students who, like him, were late, or were just on an errand. They all gawked and tried to disappear into the wall as he and the scythe passed. Somehow, walking through the hall with a scythe became less frightening when there were others to bear the fear instead—and Rowan couldn’t deny that it was a bit heady to be cast as a scythe’s trailblazer, riding in the cone of such respect. It wasn’t until they reached the office that the truth hit home. The scythe was going to glean one of Rowan’s classmates today.
Everyone in the office stood the moment they saw the scythe, and he wasted no time. “Please have Kohl Whitlock called to the office immediately.”
“Kohl Whitlock?” said the secretary.
The scythe didn’t repeat himself, because he knew she had heard—she just wasn’t willing to believe.
“Yes, Your Honor, I’ll do it right away.”
Rowan knew Kohl. Hell, everyone knew Kohl Whitlock. Just a junior, he had already risen to be the school’s quarterback. He was going to take them all the way to a league championship for the first time in forever.
The secretary’s voice shook powerfully when she made the call into the intercom. She coughed as she said his name, choking up.
And the scythe patiently awaited Kohl’s arrival.
The last thing Rowan wanted to do was antagonize a scythe. He should have just slunk off to the attendance window, gotten his readmit, and gone to class. But as with the mountain lion, he just had to stand his ground. It was a moment that would change his life.
“You’re gleaning our star quarterback—I hope you know that.”
The scythe’s demeanor, so cordial a moment before, took a turn toward tombstone. “I can’t see how it’s any of your business.”
“You’re in my school,” Rowan said. “I guess that makes it my business.” Then self-preservation kicked in, and he strode to the attendance window, just out of the scythe’s line of sight. He handed in his forged tardy note, all the while muttering Stupid stupid stupid under his breath. He was lucky he wasn’t born in a time when death was natural, because he’d probably never survive to adulthood.
As he turned to leave the office, he saw a bleak-eyed Kohl Whitlock being led into the principal’s office by the scythe. The principal voluntarily ejected himself from his own office, then looked to the staff for an explanation, but only received the teary-eyed shaking of their heads.
No one seemed to notice Rowan still lingering there. Who cared about the lettuce when the beef was being devoured?
He slipped past the principal, who saw him just in time to put a hand on his shoulder. “Son, you don’t want to go in there.”
He was right, Rowan didn’t want to go in there. But he went anyway, closing the door behind him.
There were two chairs in front of the principal’s well-organized desk. The scythe sat in one, Kohl in the other, hunched and sobbing. The scythe burned Rowan a glare. The mountain lion, thought Rowan. Only this one actually had the power to end a human life.
“His parents aren’t here,” Rowan said. “He should have someone with him.”
“Are you family?”
“Does it matter?”
Then Kohl raised his head. “Please don’t make Ronald go,” he pleaded.
“It’s Rowan.”
Kohl’s expression shot to higher horror, as if this error somehow sealed the deal. “I knew that! I did! I really did!” For all his bulk and bravado, Kohl Whitlock was just a scared little kid. Is that what everyone became in the end? Rowan supposed only a scythe could know.
Rather than forcing Rowan to leave, the scythe said, “Grab a chair then. Make yourself comfortable.”
As Rowan went around to pull out the principal’s desk chair, he wondered if the scythe was being ironic, or sarcastic, or if he didn’t even know that making oneself comfortable was impossible in his presence.
“You can’t do this to me,” Kohl begged. “My parents will die! They’ll just die!”
“No they won’t,” the scythe corrected. “They’ll live on.”
“Can you at least give him a few minutes to prepare?” Rowan asked.
“Are you telling me how to do my job?”
“I’m asking you for some mercy!”
The scythe glared at him again, but this time it was somehow different. He wasn’t just delivering intimidation, he was extracting something. Studying something in Rowan. “I’ve done this for many years,” the scythe said. “In my experience, a quick and painless gleaning is the greatest mercy I can show.”
“Then at least give him a reason! Tell him why it has to be him!”
“It’s random, Rowan!” Kohl said. “Everyone knows that! It’s just freaking random!”
But there was something in the scythe’s eyes that said otherwise. So Rowan pressed.
“There’s more to it, isn’t there?”
The scythe sighed. He didn’t have to say anything—he was, after all, a scythe, above the law in every way. He owed no one an explanation. But he chose to give one anyway.
“Removing old age from the equation, statistics from the Age of Mortality cite 7 percent of deaths as being automobile-related. Of those, 31 percent involved the use of alcohol, and of those, 14 percent were teenagers.” Then he tossed Rowan a small calculator from the principal’s desk. “Figure it out yourself.”
Rowan took his time crunching the numbers, knowing that every second taken was a second of life he bought for Kohl.
“.303%.” Rowan finally said.
“Which means,” said the scythe, “that about three out of every thousand souls I glean will fit that profile. One out every three hundred thirty-three. Your friend here just got a new car and has a record of drinking to excess. So, of the teens who fit that profile, I made a random choice.”
Kohl buried his head in his hands, his tears intensifying. “I’m such an IDIOT!” He pressed his palms against his eyes as if trying to push them deep within his head.
“So tell me,” the scythe said calmly to Rowan. “Has the explanation eased his gleaning, or made his suffering worse?”