Dear Life,
I found I had a quiet hour this evening. Our subject stayed inside because of the rain, so that’s another victory for you. I knew it was a longshot, but I was going to have him slip into a ditch on his way into town. Right now, he’s got his feet up near the fire and sleepily smoking his pipe.
It’s no matter. You always have more victories, thousands more, than I. I only ever need the one.
I do think it’s unfair of you to get so attached to our subject, though. You make this game far too personal. How would you feel if I went to the extremes you do? I ordered up a little rain hoping our subject will slip down that embankment he always passes, and youāI hesitate to use the word, but I mustāspied on me. You found out what I was about, and you bribed the clouds into letting loose a downpour. Don’t think I don’t know it was you.
You know as well as I that our subject’s hour is nearly done. In all my cases up to this point, a sort of gentleman’s agreement has stood between both sides. We always fudge a little towards the end and split the difference. The way you’re going, he’s going to outlive his time, and then we’re both in the red.
Yours respectfully,
Death
PS
Looks like it stopped raining. I must admit, it was a very nice storm, if you like that sort of thing. I’m not sore about it. As I said, it was a longshot. We still have a few more years to go. What good will those years do him? He’s old, you’ve seen that he’s lived a full life, and if you’d let me, I’d give him a gentle touch in his sleep. Just imagine all the things you could do with a few extra years slipped under the table. Infant mortality is still high, one in four where we’re working. Wouldn’t our subject willingly give up a few of his golden years to rescue an unborn child? Think about it.
Tale Told 