Cool. Vast. The impressions hit Ryan in waves. He was weightless. Blinded by the pervasive pitch of the layered black. But he wasn’t alone. He felt the pull of the reaper, like a current tugging him along, just shy of the dangerous riptide lapping hungrily at his heels. When she was younger, Roxanne had talked about the darkness that waited for her when she died. She’d said it was warm and inviting. Reece, on the other hand, had screaming nightmares about it for weeks afterward. For Ryan, it was a little of both. He was awake. Aware that he’d died. But alert and so scared that he didn’t dare let himself think about what he’d just done. He held the key chain in his hand, palm tight around its flattened edges. It still felt warm. He’d quit asking how or why. He shoved his other hand into his pocket and curled his fingers over Brandy’s dog tag, knowing he didn’t really have a hand or a pocket, but in this dark place it felt like he did.
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