She could feel death all around her. This was a new phenomenon seemingly brought on by nothing and its continued presence in her life concerned her. She would be sitting at her desk or walking to her car and without warning an undertow of anguish would engulf her. A premonition of loss so great she could feel it her knees. She would imagine the phone call, “there’s been an accident.” Her father, her niece, her lover, whomever. She could see herself racing to the hospital, tears streaking her mascara. She could hear the sardonic pop song on the radio; notice the pedestrians on the street moving forward with their lives. She saw herself alone under a sea of comforters in a blue-black pre-dawn bedroom. A dog-eared book on bereavement sitting on her nightstand. And standing at her car or in her chair at her desk, she would be temporarily seized by this terrible vision. And it wasn’t even the loved ones deaths she feared. If she was honest with herself it was something else. It was the shock — the sudden shift from things being one way to things being another way — which freighted her most. The fact that the Universe could plug one of her beloved into its chaos equation and take them away — it was unfair. And the unfairness was what she truly feared. That and the funeral. The wake. The sobbing and the Prozac and the procession of tacky shoes parading toward the open casket to pay their last respects. The grief counselor whose fat face she could just picture spouting bullshit. Making her feel worse. Somehow those were the things she was most panicked about. Not the actual deaths. That she could jive with. That she could understand on some deep, cosmic level.

These thoughts of death and dying would last a minute or two and then subside slowly into the ether of her mind. Like a genie returning to its lamp for another hibernation. And her day would resume. She might call the unfortunate loved one who was the subject of her waking dream and pretend to fact check some detail or ask about their day. She would say I love you. But lately the frequency of these thoughts was increasing. When she was young her mortality was funny. She stood on its shores and taunted it. Now — as she grew into a woman — these feelings lingered always. Like the vestiges of someone’s presence shortly after they’ve left the room.

Jim Carole joined his company — Burnham, Bigley & Fremd — in his twenty-first year. He discovered soon thereafter that he possessed an almost preternatural business sense. While others tirelessly fought to get their work noticed by their superiors, Jim commanded the company’s attention with his personal confidence and his uncanny ability to produce uncomplicated, smart ideas. Real ideas. And ideas, Jim knew, were the currency of everything. He also knew the importance of small details and tried and true workplace manners. He arrived at the office early and kept a clean desk. He tipped the coffee man well. He took pride in everything he put his name on, from memos to pitch approvals to credit card receipts. While others trudged in the quicksand of their own confusion and insecurity, Jim rose through the company ranks with swift grace. He had a pretty girl whom all the upper-executive and their wives adored and whom he would soon make his spouse. He spent conservatively and wasn’t showy. He didn’t give into flighty trends in fashion or taste but was know nonetheless for his timeless cool. Like all great men, Jim Carole was not universally liked. He could be cold and reticent. His aloofness was often misread as arrogance.

When Jim was forty years old, he received a promotion which pushed him into another stratosphere of social rank. With the additional income, he purchased a new residence. One of those new construction homes with the new lawns and the new smells and the fresh cement walks in the backyard which his family could etch their names into and watch dry into a permanent record of their being there. Jim and his wife were now the parents of four good-looking children and they needed more room to flourish. More room to be alive. The house — located on Poplar Street, between Fern and Del Mar avenue — had been built the previous summer by a local contractor and a team of Polish immigrants. Jim and his family would be the first owners. No skeletons yet existed in the closets of the house and the drywall and carpeting weren’t tainted by the perfumes and cooking smells of other lineage. Jim wanted empty rooms between empty walls for his children to fill with their things. A place to stretch and grow and knick their knees and whisper secrets and remember forever until their own dying day. He took pride in the big empty house and in the weeks leading up to their move-in, Jim would walk through its rooms and corridors alone and smile to himself. Life was rather simple. If you had goals and ambition and an iota of talent, Jim knew the Universe would reward you. It had surely rewarded him.

Too good.