“So when do new souls get implanted?” Grace asked one day. “Is it at conception or birth?”
“That’s above your pay grade,” I chided her. “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”
Then I added, “Actually, I’d have to kill you, then tell you.”
“Grim Reapers can’t take lives. Only souls.” The girl was quick.
“Touché,” I admitted. “Guess you’ll have to wait to find out.”
That was the way things went between us. Not only did she make me more efficient, but she also made the work more fun. We got close over the next few months and I found myself on Mondays waiting anxiously for it to be Saturday again.
One Saturday, Grace came into the plant and she was glowing, positively glowing.
I had to ask.
“What’s with you?”
“Nothing,” she said, looking like she just had canary for lunch.
I pressed it. “Come on…”
Grace’s dam finally burst.
“You remember Eddie? The Paramedic?” she gushed.
I wanted to die. Not that that would have done me any good.