List

Death looked at the list and groaned. "You okay?" one of the others in the break room asked. "Hortense McDowell is on the list again." Someone whistled. Death shook its head and repeated the name dejectedly, appearing in front of the door to her unit; inside, she was humming and moving things about (there was a light scent of cucumber sandwiches and Death wondered if Hortense was setting snacks out). "Ready, ready!" she called gleefully (as if she could sense an angel at the door and, on its side, Death groaned again). She would talk and talk; she would take a breath, say hello, and talk for hours; it would not be able to interrupt her long enough to inform her that she'd died. Death did not feel great about just making up an excuse and fleeing (leaving her alive); it had fled four times now and struggled to find the will to enter. "Just yell "Dead!", touch her hand, and go!" one of the lesser retrievers had coached, but that spirit was young and so incredibly direct that it had been benched for being rude countless times. "I might do it, though," Death sighed at the door. "This is ridiculous."