We stood in the midst of all things, off to the side, also, out of the way of the men who ran, ran, ran. They were trying to save everything, I know. But part of me felt myself bubble up and over and I could see myself laugh in the dreary light. He looked at me, swung his scythe around and looked at me.

I could feel his eyes burning holes into my soul. I quickly killed the laugh.

I'd gone down the hill. I'd promised the man that I would not go down the hill but I had and discovered this other figure standing there. I did not look at him with both eyes. I could not, to do so hurt me because he flickered and wavered like he was never there but always there. Sometimes, I was sure, if I moved fast enough I could stand where he stood now, while he stood there.

I shook my head and wondered at myself. Of course he was really there, and no one can move around so quickly.

I stared at the city. Most of it was gone, but parts were still falling apart. The buildings let out agonized screams as the last of the flames wrenched them apart and threw the pieces onto the ground. Maybe the screams were the dying. I didn't know; I tried not to think of that.

The figure flashed in the fading firelight and was certain I saw the scythe swing towards nothingness. Far away, there was the dull yell of death. I thought nothing of it, and thought of the figure. He saw me watching him, and, as he moved, dancing between the smoke and red light he looked at me. I caught his eye for a just a second and the forced myself to watch the horizon for hints of the sun. Even that single moment made my eyes water.

'Can you see me?' He seemed genuinely surprised, and as I gave a cautious nod in his direction he took something from his pocket, shook it gently and replaced it. 'Why can you see me? It is not yet your time...' I could tell that he was musing to himself so I did not answer. I could not answer, anyway. Why should I not be able to see him. He was real, I was sure of that, wasn't I?

He flickered again and the scythe was on his shoulder. He reminded me of the man with the shotgun, the man with a broken heart. 'Do you know what happened here?' I shook my head. For some reason, I felt sure that I should not speak to him, for my own safety. He sighed and swung the scythe from his shoulder. It came to rest in the thick ash. He sat down on a jutting piece of iron and rested the handle of the scythe on his knee. He seemed as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and he sighed tentatively.

'So much work today.' Men ran past, shouting, buckets of slopping water flying with them. 'All I ever do is work. And today I've been run off my feet.'

When he had been mixed with the smoke and the heat and the scythe I had been afraid of him. Now he seemed so much more friendly than the man with the shotgun, but I got the feeling that he wasn't sure what to do. I felt that somehow he got few opportunities to speak with anyone.

He took a box of cigarettes from his pocket and nearly offered one to me. Then he shook his head, already knowing my answer though I do not know how, pulled one out and lit it from the smoldering splinters by his feet.

'Do you want to know more of this place, its story, its history?' He drew in a breath and puffed out smoke and it mingled so with the air that I could not see the swirling patterns it made. I looked at the world around me, this miniature hell, and nodded.

'Yes. Yes, please.'

He glanced at the scythe momentarily, perhaps remembering his work. Then he frowned at it and concentrated on the ravaged buildings and the burnt out sky.

'Well...' He began.

(3) ——> by tentative