The streets feel a little emptier today, the crowds a little tenser, but maybe that’s just me. This business in China has us all a bit shaken, I’m sure. A few passersby wear pale blue masks across their faces, the sort you rarely see outside of hospitals, and I notice a few funny glances directed their way by the folks who aren’t quite sure what to make of all this yet.
I take a breath, trying not to think about what else might be tagging along for the ride, and make my way down Second Avenue.
At one o’clock exactly, I arrive at the entrance of New York Marble Cemetery. Per the website, it should be closed to the public at this time of year, and yet the gate sits wide open.
It’s not like I have much to lose, I suppose. I walk inside.
The cemetery sits at the end of a brick-lined alleyway, a patch of grass and shrubs closed off from the rest of the city by a stone wall. At first glance, there doesn’t seem to be anyone there, and I’m not sure whether to be disappointed or not.
Then something draws my eyes to the far end of the cemetery. There’s a figure there, seated on a bench, facing away from me and sitting almost deathly still.
They don’t so much as stir as I approach. Not until I come to a hesitant stop beside the bench, and even then, it’s only their head that swivels to face me. They’re young, I think, but it’s hard to tell for sure, and their gender is anyone’s guess. There’s a tiny pin affixed to the front of their coat— a black scythe, outlined in silver. I’ve seen the symbol once before, on a mud-soaked flier on the ground in Central Park.
“Hello,” I say, and point to the pin. “Thanatos, LLC?”
“I represent their interests,” says the person. “Why don’t you have a seat?”
The bench is uncomfortably cold. I tell them my name and, in more vague terms, how I came across their job posting. I don’t mention the taser in my bag, or that, for me, it’s either take this job or lose my apartment.
“What is it that you do, exactly?” I ask, trying not to sound like an idiot.
The person nods thoughtfully, as if I’ve said something deeply philosophical. “What needs to be done,” they answer. “There has been a surge in demand. We must be prepared to meet it.”
I pull my coat a little tighter around my shoulders. I don’t want to know what they’re talking about, but I do.
They tilt their head at me. “Does this frighten you?”
“I don’t want it to,” I say. “I’m tired of being afraid.”
Their mouth twists into something like a smile. “We can help with that.”
Just like that, I’m hired.

Our first destination is a nearby apartment complex— one unit in particular. It shouldn’t be as easy as it is to get inside, but I decide not to point that out.
The place is nothing special. Some bookshelves here and there, a few framed photographs hanging on the wall. A layer of dust coats every surface, and a light blinks on the phone’s answering machine.
We find the old woman in the bedroom. The lights are off, but just enough slips between the blinds to expose her brittle, bony shape on the bed. Her breath comes fast and shallow, rattling around her ribcage in a broken sort of wheeze.
“Her daughter just came back from Italy,” they comment, as casually as remarking on the weather. “Unfortunate timing, but it can’t be helped.” They raise their eyebrows at me. “Frightened yet?”
I stay silent.
They lean over the old woman. Either she’s too far gone to notice them, or she’s simply powerless to do anything about it. As I watch, they place a fingertip over her heart, and then lower their face until it’s a matter of inches from the woman’s.
They take one deep, deliberate breath. Then that awful rasping stops, and the woman lies still. Their finger does not move from over her heart as they grin at me.
“See?” they say. “Nothing scary at all.”

Next is a middle-aged man in Brooklyn. He lives with his wife, but she’s sick, too, and there’s nothing she can do as we bring his labored breathing to a stop. Then an asthmatic teen in the suburbs. Her brother has recovered nicely, as far as anyone can tell, but we’ll be back in a few months for him.
There are hundreds, maybe thousands more visits as the spring bleeds into summer. Eventually, it’s my turn.
They take me to a convention center-turned-field hospital, crammed with makeshift cubicles and medical professionals on the verge of collapse. Many will die here. Today, we have only come for one.
The woman’s hair is splayed over her pillow as she sleeps. Judging from the gray just beginning to creep into it, I’d put her at forty or so.
They signal me. It’s time.
I place my finger over her heart, lean down close, and I breathe in deep. Such a simple action.
When I pull away, there’s only a corpse before me.
A monitor wails. It’s the only indication that anything has changed.

After that, I’m able to see the others. They flit through the corners of my vision, swarming around houses and hospitals and subway benches. It’s hard to imagine they ever weren’t there. On the occasion that our eyes meet, I touch my own pin and offer them a nod.
There is no payment, but no one comes by for the rent anymore. That’s good enough for me.
I don’t know fear, and it doesn’t know me. Like life before this virus, we are strangers now. Sometimes there is breath, and sometimes there is not. I do what needs to be done, and the Earth continues to spin. Business as usual.
Nothing scary at all.