The Ferryman Institute by Colin Gigl Page B

fuck to spare for potentially ending mankind. Unbeknownst to the entire Ferryman Institute, Charlie’s perfect record of two hundred and fifty years wasn’t his goal, as most thought. In actuality, the record was merely a by-product of him wanting to be the H -word (four letters, two syllables, rhymes with zero ). Charlie saw a woman in front of him who needed saving, and he was going to make it happen, simple as that.
    Even so, this was a clear step further than anything he’d ever done before. For decades, he’d made a habit of toeing the linewhen it came to the rules, even nudging it forward a bit from time to time when no one was looking. This, however, was a bounding hurdle over it (one small step for Charlie, one giant leap for . . . well, still Charlie). It was a uniquely dissonant form of terror: terrifying that he could end it all, terrifying that he didn’t care.
    He gently placed his hand on Maria’s. She twitched. Apparently, even though her neck was broken, she felt his touch, which meant she wasn’t paralyzed. Charlie thought that, for once, the alternative would have been kinder.
    â€œHelb . . . helb ee . . . ,” she moaned. “Pweaaa . . . my chil’en . . .” Her words were thick and fumbling, maybe the result of a broken jaw, or maybe even damage to her tongue, but she spoke clearly enough for Charlie to understand. A gentle breeze wafted through the air, shaking the boughs above. He could feel her trying to move, trying to roll over to face him, but her body did nothing more than quiver.
    Charlie presumed that the hand he held was now cold, but he squeezed it gingerly anyway. “I’m here for you, Maria.”
    When she heard her name, she tried to speak again, but instead of words there was only a long but excited gurgle. It was followed by a vigorous cough, which freed her voice. “Helb ee . . . doan wan . . . eye. I ave a . . . amily. A aye-ee. Icks unts old. Pwease . . . ay-ve ee.” Help her, Charlie—she didn’t want to die. Had a family. A baby, six months old. Save her, Ferryman—save the goddamn girl. Another fit of coughing set her rattling.
    When she finished, Charlie began to speak. The words simply fell out of his mouth like autumn leaves carried over a rushing waterfall. In a very real sense of the phrase, it felt like a speech from the heart.
    â€œMaria, my name is Charles Dawson, but everyone calls me Charlie. I’m a Ferryman. Most people don’t know what that is orbelieve me when I tell them, but basically my job is to make sure you find your way to the afterlife, to your afterlife. It sounds crazy, I know. It still does to me and I’ve been at this for over two hundred and fifty years. Frankly, I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to it. I didn’t think, after all these years, I had any heart left to break. How wrong I was.
    â€œI can’t even begin to express how truly, utterly, and sincerely sorry I am to see you in these circumstances. I can’t. If there were anything I could do to change things, I would. Believe me, I absolutely would. But I can’t. I’m so sorry, but I can’t. The only thing I can offer you is a doorway to finding some peace. It may not seem like much, but beyond it is comfort. Hope. Love. I promise you that.
    â€œSome people call me an angel, or the Grim Reaper, or even God, but I’m telling you that I’m not any of those things. I’m just a guy in an expensive-looking suit who wishes more than anything in the world that I could go back in time and stop this from happening. You’re going to die soon, Maria. When you do, please don’t stay here. Don’t slowly lose your mind and become nothing but a vengeful spirit, preying in mindless agony on unsuspecting strangers. Don’t forget the face of your child, of your husband, of anybody you’ve