It’s Sunday and time for a tiny bit of story. For the start of the story and links to other installments, see this post.
His high mood lasted until the following week at breakfast. He was eating scrambled eggs and toast while reading the local newspaper. The headline—Local Man Dies in Fiery Crash—didn’t elicit any real interest. He always hated reading about death and disease. As he was browsing the page, the name of the victim seemed to leap off the page. It was Vincent Torelli of 33 Winding Way. Phil read the story in stunned silence, remembering the spreadsheet in Mr. Gabriel’s office. If it was just a coincidence, it was the damndest coincidence he had ever heard of.
He had to think this through. Without realizing it, he left his seat and started pacing agitatedly around the kitchen table, talking to himself. “OK,” he said. “Let’s think. Is there any way Mr. Gabriel could know who was going to die next and how? Why would he know that? Could he be God?”
Phil rounded the table several times as he chewed that idea over. No, he thought. Mr. Gabriel was kind of a putz. God couldn’t be a putz. His feet scuffed the floor as he continued to pace. Was it safe to continue working there? What the hell were they doing really? Should he call out sick?
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of his mother coughing. It echoed down the hallway. He could envision her emaciated old body spasming as it attempted to expel something that wasn’t there. She called to him. He grabbed a plastic cup from the drainboard and opened the tap. She just needed a fresh glass of water and then the cough would pass.
No, he wouldn’t be calling out sick from work.