Death didn’t have to be sadistic; sometimes it was downright anticlimactic.
Dori stood up and put a moist hand through her hair. She was winded and wobbly. Her pulse beat just a tad too fast, as if she’d taken a puff from someone’s emergency inhaler and her lungs were full of steroids. The younger and healthier the person, the more jittery she felt.

She gave Ruben an uncertain smile.

“Forty-two years. Three! Forty-three, I mean. I’m right now.”