There was a candle in my hand, smoke trailed from the wick. A shiver ran down my spine. The table next to me bore a matchbox lying open. It was plain without any writing on it and only had three matches left. I tore one out and tried to light it, but it didn’t even spark. I grabbed another, same thing. The last; nothing. None of them would light and the coating on their tips were spent. I stood staring at the candle, trying to will a flame into existence. The absence of light made the room feel colder, and it seemed to be getting darker. I dropped the candle. As it clattered to the floor, I noticed a wood stove in the corner; I just wanted to be warm.

I opened my eyes and was immediately blinded by the sun shining through my bedroom window. Water stretched to the horizon with sailboats dotting its surface. The sun’s reflection rippling across its expanse would have made the sight a beautiful painting, but the novelty had long worn off for me. Lately, the view reminded me of the outrageous rent that I could barely come up with each month.

Dragging myself out of bed, I stumbled over a pair of jeans. My bedroom floor had a second carpet made of dirty clothes. The basket which I normally used was overflowing. I couldn’t be bothered to start throwing loads into the washer because later I’d have to put them in the dryer then muster the ambition to put them away. Couldn’t bear the disdain of wearing wrinkles, or ironing.

I walked out to the living room in my underwear and strode lazily to the kitchen. My choice of décor didn’t exactly fit the usual standards of an upscale apartment overlooking the water. My girlfriend had taken everything when she moved out, so there was nothing but a couch and a TV. I bought them after she’d left. She had been kind enough to leave me something though: an outstanding rent balance and the landlord’s most recent monthly reminder to pay it.

Bottles and cans spilled out of a small blue recycling bin next to the fridge. A cover over the garbage kept me from thinking about the contents barely contained underneath. I was on the 12th floor, and it was incredibly inconvenient to take a trip down to dispose of either. Considering the cost of the apartment, someone could at least come and pick it up for me.

After starting the coffee maker, I sat down at the kitchen table. My laptop lived there amongst half-opened piles of mail. It wasn’t a shiny MacBook like I saw most people my age toting around.; it was a cheap bargain laptop I stood in line for on Black Friday. It also wasn’t particularly fast, but it got the job done.

I ran a business, but not a successful one. I was disillusioned by the glamorous lifestyle society implied owning a company would consist of. The false assumption was filled with parties, swimming pools full of money, and bikini-clad 20-somethings dancing on my yacht. Instead, it was more like throwing money into a toilet and hoping that with each flush, it would finally clog and overflow gold. Since I hadn’t mopped up any gold recently, I tried to identify the cause for my lack of clients and settled on marketing as the issue.

When I was a kid, I remembered seeing lawyer’s faces plastered on billboards with catchy slogans like, “If you’ve taken a fall, give us a call.” Or “Call in a hurry and you won’t have to worry.” Everyone knows attorneys make a lot of money, so I maxed out a credit card to put one up for my company. Apparently, people don’t look at billboards anymore because I didn’t get many more calls than before. I figured there couldn’t be any other explanation since I saw no flaws in the content of the advertisement.

On it, I stood next to an old guy in a bed, a sterile hospital environment surrounding us. Nearby, a heart monitor showed a flat line going across it, like you see in a movie where someone dies. At the end of the line, there’s a blip indicating the client, much like the actor in my example, miraculously came back to life. My hand was resting on his chest, the other flashing a thumbs-up toward potential clients driving down the interstate. I had a huge grin on my face with a speech bubble exclaiming: “For healing the sick or raising the dead, I accept cash, crypto, or cred.” Tempted by the prospect of bringing back their loved ones from death or the brink of it, I thought people would be throwing money at me.

I resigned myself to checking my email. According to the number next to the inbox, I had 732 unread messages. Scrolling through the list, none of the emails on the first page were from actual people, just junk mail. I’d eventually find time to unsubscribe from mailing lists and delete all the messages. Probably.

I switched over to the calendar. The schedule had an appointment this morning at 9:30. It was titled: “Second Chance” with an address listed in the location box and the name Cara Hasbrook in the description. The term “second chance” was how I referred to bringing someone back from the dead. I applied for a trademark on the phrase, but I hadn’t heard anything back yet. Maybe I could try a commercial next time and the expression could be incorporated somehow. The current catchphrase I had in mind for that was: “Hold onto your pants, I can give your loved ones a second chance,” but I was still working on it.

The coffee maker started hissing without the drips associated with filling the pot. I grabbed a travel mug from the cabinet, but lacking forethought, I filled it all the way to the brim. I stared dumbly at the lid and the mug on the counter. The rest of my morning tasks became a blur, interspersed with gingerly taking sips and burning my mouth until I could put the cover on.

I made it a habit to eat before an appointment just in case I had to pull from my own energy reserves. It didn’t happen very often, but I’d rather be safe than sorry. My standard practice was to pull from the family and friends that attended the miracle. There wouldn’t be enough time today since I was running a tad late, but several family members would be there so there wasn’t any call for concern. The coffee would have to hold me over until lunch.

I left the apartment a little before nine, which should have given me enough time to walk to my car, follow my phone’s directions, and make it to the appointment with time to spare. I did not account for elevator maintenance, nor the twelve flights of stairs I needed to descend as a result. Thankfully, it was just a minor inconvenience considering my perfect physique, I thought to myself between wheezes. Walking down a bunch of stairs shouldn’t have been considered exercise, but the idea of having to climb back up them inspired dread. Future me would have to deal with that.

My mentor always used to say, “Your body needs to be prepared to handle anything that comes up.” That meant a training routine and meditation every morning, but that was too much of a bother. I’d fallen out of the habit in the past few months. There were so many other things I could be doing with that time like ignoring my laundry.

I tried to sneak past the front desk, but Dale, the security guard, noticed and called out, “Hey Jesse!” He obviously didn’t pick up on my disinterest for conversation by my I’m-too-busy-to-stop-and-chat walk. “Why are you wheezing?” He asked. The question went unanswered which left room in my head to remember that my travel mug was still sitting on the counter twelve flights up. I groaned.

“Hey, you got any jobs coming up? I got a kick out of the last one. Can’t believe hospital security threw you out,” chuckled Dale, dropping any further critique of my less-than-stellar stair descent performance.

“Yeah, I’m going to one now.” The caffeine deprivation was evident in my tone. “Actually, now that you mention it, I still haven’t gotten paid for that job. You’d think the hospital would be happier about curing a stage 4 cancer patient and increasing their survival rate.” Dale’s charisma had slowed my pace.

Dale had dark skin, dark eyes, and a dark sense of humor. He was always smiling with two exceptions: when he was messing with someone or when someone was messing with him. He worked as a security guard during the day and moonlighted at a bar, but he wanted to be a cop. His bulk usually made anyone reconsider wrongdoings in his vicinity. His pencil thin mustache also made him look like a 1940’s supervillain.

“You know you got the dean of medicine fired, right?” He continued, trying to pull me back into conversation. I had already walked past, so I thought I was out of range, but he got me.

“What?” I asked halting my step and turning back to him.

“Yeah, he resigned shortly after your little stunt, but I know a nurse there, said the board came down on him hard,” he explained. “Considering your reputation with the hospital, the staff is convinced the resignation wasn’t his idea. Apparently, you’re bad for business, my friend.”

“For death’s sake, they didn’t take me seriously when I offered to come on as a consultant. I saved her life and the hospital probably even got paid instead of me.” Using “death” to replace other words, especially in idioms, was kind of my thing. It was clever, morbid, and blended perfectly with my personality. It also complimented with the whole second chance thing.

“That’s not the way they saw it. Your picture is tacked up at every entrance like a wanted poster. They’re making you out to be a criminal; a charlatan. They said you were a fake, and as soon as they kicked you out, they killed the patient as a message.” His eyes shifted conspiratorially. My thoughts stopped and I stared at him in disbelief. He said nothing, then just stared back at me. Then he burst out laughing. “You should have seen your face. What did you think the hospital is run by the mob or something?” He said between chuckles. “You’re so easy. It’s not even-” I turned and started walking toward the door again. “Come on, man. Don’t be like that.”

“Goodbye Dale.” I said gruffly as the door closed behind me. Dale was a good guy. We had a similar sense of humor, so I considered him a friend. I shared the good stories with him, and he helped me get back to my apartment after a couple tiring jobs. Another benefit, he screened unwanted guests for me. I think he kind of enjoyed that part actually, especially if it involved Detective Blames-Me-For-Every-Suspicious-Death-Because-Of-An-Old-Grudge; can’t imagine why his mother would name him that.

I hadn’t even made it to the sidewalk when my cellphone rang. Shawn’s name flashed on the screen, so I hesitantly answered it. Instead of expressing excitement for allowing him to come along on the job, I was greeted by accusation and impatience.

“Where the hell are you?” he asked.

“Language!” I just about shouted. Swearing was a major pet-peeve of mine. “I’m leaving my apartment now. As soon as I find my car, I’ll be on my way.”

Shawn Ellison was a 21-year-old, rich kid, college drop-out with frustratingly good looks. Well, it might be a bit harsh to call him a drop-out. It hadn’t been his choice to forego his education; he was forced to because he died.

For him, death was the catalyst for awakening his ability. His parents hired me to heal him, as a desperate last effort. He was in some kind of accident and the doctors said he wouldn’t make it, which, by the time I got there, he hadn’t. I brought him back and collected my fee. The job was simple and that should have been the end of it. A couple weeks later, he was begging me to help him. He said he was bleeding light. It made him sound crazy to everyone else, but I knew it was a potential symptom of the ability. The ramifications of him accidentally killing himself or others would have been bad for business, so following that line of thought, I acquiesced. I took him on as an apprentice of sorts.

That had been almost a year ago and after all that time, I still didn’t consider Shawn a friend. He was fuller of himself than I was. Unlike the endearing kind of narcissism that I display, he was just annoying. He had the sort of haughtiness that made you wonder if he had ever tried cashing his crap like a check.

“You’re just leaving now?!” He uttered in disbelief. “The appointment was at 9!”

I halted the search for my periwinkle blue grandma-mobile to correct him. “No, it’s at 9:30. I’ll be a bit late, but I’ll be there as soon as I find my stupid car.”

“No, you definitely said 9 when you agreed to let me help on this one.” He said without a shred of doubt in his tone. My eyes narrowed.

“Helping was not part of the invitation,” I said sternly. I didn’t take him along on every job because I wasted a ton of energy not strangling him. Regardless, his insistence on the time must have meant I screwed up putting it in my calendar after telling him about it. “For death’s sake,” I muttered. “I’m only 20 minutes away, so just park on the street, wait in your car, and I’ll be there soon.” He couldn’t reply because I hung up on him. My intuition told me the day was only going to get worse from there. My suspicion was confirmed immediately because I spent the next half hour failing to find my car, trying to report it stolen, finding out that it had been impounded, and using a phone app to desperately get a ride.

----

Pulling into the Forest Hills subdivision, the landscape was a major departure from the tall apartment buildings downtown or the tightly packed and dilapidated houses I grew up around. There was a good mix of ranches and colonial homes with big yards and mature trees lining the streets. Furthermore, the road wasn’t filled with cracks and framed with deteriorating sidewalks. Actually, there were no sidewalks at all, just lush green lawns.

My driver pulled onto Cherrywood Lane and parked in front of a nice, but simple, two-story house with bluish-gray siding and a two-car garage. I got out of the car and pulled out my phone. I hoped it looked like I was leaving a tip, but I was really checking my bank account. Any tip I gave would overdraw my account, so I just looked up and waved to the driver with a fake smile.

Shawn’s black and red convertible was parked in the driveway. He’d completely disregarded my instructions, and that aggravated me. Walking past Shawn’s sports car, the empty front seat registered as a slight increase on my anxiety meter. He hadn’t waited for me at all.

To my relief, the door to the house opened and Shawn came strolling out toward me. He had blonde hair that parted asymmetrically, and it was immaculately held in place with some kind of product. He was tall, a couple inches over 6 foot, compared to my five foot six and three-quarters. He had a build that complemented his modeling career. All I knew was that it was the kind of modeling that involved not wearing a shirt.

Where I looked like a teenager going to his first interview, he looked like he was heading to a country club, wearing a pastel pink polo and khaki shorts. He also wore a condescending smirk which he tended to accent with a looking-down-his-nose-at-you head tilt. The dull gray eyes associated with being brought back from the dead was the only thing that kept him from being the chick magnet he must have been. Of course, that was probably why he wore dreamy blue contact lenses.

“You made it just in time, Jesse.” Shawn said without a hint of sarcasm.

I blankly considered his face. That stupid face made me realize I’d already taught him how to control his ability. He wasn’t a danger to himself or others, so lessons should be over. After this job, I’d tell him to stop calling me. Like an employee’s termination though, I’d wait until after the workday, so I played along.

With an air of showmanship, I shot back, “What can I say? I like to build suspense for the main attraction.”

His smirk widened, “Well, sorry to ruin your big entrance. The job’s done.” His expression melted from challenging to satisfied. “I don’t think I’ll be needing your instruction for much longer, oh wise and punctual teacher.” Couldn’t complain about the second part, but the first was concerning.

“What do you mean, ‘the job’s done’?” My anxiety came back, and its meter was tipping into the yellow.

“I was tired of waiting for you, so I went in and brought the client’s daughter back on my own. I gave Cara her ‘Second Chance’.” There was an emphasis on the ‘I’ and exaggerated sarcasm for my pending trademark. “She’s pretty hot too. I might have to give her a first chance with me.”

“Classy.” I said continuing the banter, but my expression grew serious, “How did you bring her back?”

“I did it the same way you do it.” He said nonchalantly, “Some of us have lives. I have a tee time with friends to get to.”

“Shawn!” I exclaimed, “How exactly did you do it?” The needle on the gauge was rapidly approaching red.

He sighed. “I had her mother, father, and two aunts join hands with me. Then I grabbed the dead chick’s chest with my other hand.” He smirked and nodded with an appreciative satisfaction. His vulgarity was one of the reasons why he bothered me so much. I ignored it, rolling my eyes, and gesturing for him to continue. He did so with disdain for interrupting his perverted thoughts, “I moved their energy through me until all five of them had the same amount. It was easier than I thought, so I don’t know what takes you so long. It felt different than your lessons though. If energy had a taste, yours is like water; theirs was like a bad homebrew.” He made a repulsed face with the comment.

In line with his description, energy has different “flavors”, based on the subject’s emotions. Mine is flavorless. I’m patient when bringing someone back to life because the emotion-tainted energy I pull from the attendees gets purified in my body. The pure energy is much easier for a person to absorb and make their own. Also, it’s much more efficient; less energy is wasted, and it requires less effort.

I reached for his collar and drew it up in my fists, which was a challenge because of our difference in height. “It takes me ‘so long’ because it’s a lot more complicated than making sure everyone’s glass has the same amount of beer in it!” There was more in the analogy keg, but my anxiety meter blew past red and shattered when a scream came from the house.