Sitting at my favorite booth at the Lucky Panda, I was minding my own when the two reapers entered the restaurant. They were two ordinary men casually dressed, not skeletons draped in black hooded cloaks like you see in pictures. One was young, in his late teens with streaks of blue in his dark shaggy hair and a Ramones t-shirt that had seen better days. The other was past middle age, had dark curly hair peppered with grey, wore khaki trousers, and a navy blue polo shirt. Ordinary.

I sensed what they were the second they entered the restaurant.

The hostess seated them at the booth behind my own and took their orders. The older fellow ordered General Zhao's chicken and a coke. The youngster ordered the orange beef with a side of crab Rangoon wantons, fried rice, and an egg roll.

"You're really going to eat all that, Quincy?" the elder said after the waitress walked away. I smiled because his accent reminded me of a Bronx bookie I once knew.

"Yeah? So?" the younger one said. "Not like I got to worry about cholesterol, right old man? Might as well dig in and get my fill."

"Just because you can't die doesn't mean you should eat like a pig," he grumbled. "Besides, you're not the one paying for this shit."

"Whatever. What ever Jimmy. I never asked for this stupid job. It wouldn't be so bad if we got some compensation."

"You get eternal life. Isn't that what all you kids want these days, what with your Twilight and your True Blood or what the hell they call it?"

Quincy snorted. "I ain't one of those douchey vampire wannabes. Just 'cause I wear black and die my hair don't make me one of those Lestat bitches."

"What the hell is a Lestat?"

Quincy fell silent. I couldn't see the kid without peeking over my seat, but I figured he was rolling his eyes, a prerequisite for teenagers.

"What's your problem today, anyway?" Jimmy asked. "You don't have your head in the job. It's like you're working on autopilot or something."

"This about that Fourth Street geezer? I reaped the guy. What's the problem?"

Jimmy sighed. "You were supposed to reap the soul before he got hit by the semi not after. Thing like that could damage the soul."

"You don't really believe that shit do you? Smitty says that's just some urban legend they tell to keep us in line."

"Smitty 's a nut job. He sees conspiracies every where he looks. You're a moron for listening to him."

"You don't really believe it?"

"What? About the soul being damaged?"

"Yeah," Quincy said.

"You better believe I do."

"Then why not reap that waitress chick when we first came in? You wanted to put our order in before she bit the dust," Quincy said, making mocking tsking noises. "Talk about not having your head in the job."

"We have time."

"We have three minutes. Cutting it close don't you think?"

"What makes you think she's our target?"

"Her name tag—"

"—only had her first name," Jimmy corrected him. "Chris is a common name, kid. What I tell you about assuming too much?"

"Something about you being an ass," Quincy chuckled. "Knew that the moment I met you, old man."

This perked my interest. My first name is Christian. I didn't rush out of the place, though. For the record, I'm not suicidal. The prospect of dieing didn't pleased me, but I hadn't led an very interesting life, and although I wasn't doing the happy dance over the prospect, it was nice to think I was apart of something bigger than my job, mortgage, or my Friday night bowling league.

"Not the waitress," Quincy pondered. "Not the cook or we'd already be sneaking into the kitchen. A patron?"

Jimmy got up from his seat. My heart quickened at the sound of his hard soled shoes tapping in my direction. Eyes averted, staring at my newspaper, I finally looked up. He was smiling down on me, a yellow post-it note stuck between his meaty fingers.

I smiled back. "Yes?"

"Your name wouldn't be Evans, would it?"

A gentleman sitting at a nearby table spoke up. "My name's Evans."

"Christopher Evans?"

The man nodded. "What can I do ya for?"

"Guess it's your lucky day," he said to me. He made his way to Evans, patted him on the shoulder. "Sorry friend."

Evans frowned, "Sorry for what?"

"Thought you were someone I knew," he said, turning to Quincy. "We're leaving."

"We didn't get our food yet," Quincy groaned.

"Stop griping. We'll stop for waffles after our next appointment."

Evans shrugged, went back to his meal as Quincy caught up with Jimmy who was halfway to the door. The waitress, hands full carrying their order, spotted them.

"Where are you going?" she said balancing her tray. "I haven't served you yet."

"I had my heart set on Chinese man," Quincy sulked.

Evans eyes bulged. Sweating and breathing heavily, he grabbed his right arm. I stood up, uncertain what to do.

"Sorry Doll. Work emergency," said Jimmy.

Evans slipped onto the floor. I rushed to his side, unbuttoned his collar, and performed CPR. Plates crashed to the floor as the waitress screamed. It was a lost cause. Evans was turning blue. I looked up. Jimmy smiled at me, gave me a salute. The 'See you soon' was unspoken but understood. I returned the smile, regardless. Hey, gotta go sometime, right?