Leo stared at the words until they blurred. He thought about his sister, who would listen to his voicemail at 9:00 AM and call back fifteen times before driving to his apartment. He thought about Sam, who had remarried last spring to a man who wore sensible shoes and probably went to bed at 10:00 PM. He thought about the fox, the donut, the old man with the hose.
But his name. Leo Warren. April 15th. 10:00 AM. www.death clock.com
But Leo wasn’t watching anymore.
At 7:00 AM, he sat on a park bench and watched the sunrise. It was obscenely beautiful. The kind of sunrise that makes atheists whisper prayers and cynics write bad poetry. Leo cried. Not the violent sobs of grief or the quiet tears of relief. Something in between. Something he didn’t have a name for. Leo stared at the words until they blurred