Jake waited while the phone rang, hearing it in stereo. Abruptly, the line clicked and a voice answered.

“Yes?”

It was flat, neither courteous nor rude.

“I’m calling about your ad…the Help Wanted ad.”

“One moment.”

Jake flinched as a brisk breeze blew a spray of grit into his face, stinging his cheeks. Two clicks sounded in his ear, then a voice with a mint julep drawl came on.

“How can I help you?”

“I…”

Suddenly, Jake realized that he was hearing the voice in both ears. He wheeled, coming face to necktie with a tall, white-haired man in a sparkling white suit that seemed immune to mere street grime. He looked the man down and up, from his shiny black shoes to his odd white bowler.

“I…I…,” Jake stuttered, his eye fixed on the outlandish hat.

“Speak up, son.”

“I’m calling about your ad.”

“I see. In that case, you must be in need of work.” The man’s voice was a rush of sweet tea over ice. He extended a manicured hand. “I,” he said, with a brief pause, “am Death, and I require assistance.”