Chapter 13
Greg was sitting on a bench in downtown Boulder, watching humans walk past, still ignoring his orders.
It made him itchy, ignoring orders.
But if he went back to HQ…
He’d have to tell Morrith what happened with Sarah Meadows.
Would Morrith then tell him to follow up on her the way he’d told Greg to follow up on Dustin?
It had been her time, after all.
But Greg didn’t want to cut any more parachute cords—and he didn’t want to shove a girl into oncoming traffic either.
All he’d ever wanted to be was a reaper. He wanted to be good at his job. He wanted to help humans in their darkest moments, when there wasn’t anyone else who could help.
Not this. Never this.
Greg stared at his clipboard. Morrith’s messages were still waiting for him.
He needed a different task. Something to distract him. Anything that wasn’t the slowly mounting evidence that he was very bad at his job.
Dustin.
His failure, yes, but also the most distracting creature Greg had ever met.
And maybe if Greg could talk to Dustin, he could convince him to stop interfering.
Okay, maybe that was unlikely, given the conversation they’d just had, but still…
Greg licked his lips, thinking of the dinner he’d had with Dustin before things escalated.
The memory surfaced unbidden, of the diner and the sticky table. Of Dustin wiping ketchup off Greg's face with a napkin.
I'll find money. Before next time.
Next time.
Greg had promised to pay. And he’d promised a next time.
Promises mattered. Greg kept his promises. He would find money and then he would approach Dustin again.
He released a breath.
This was a task. A concrete, achievable task.
Now he just needed to figure out how humans acquired money.
Fifteen minutes later, Greg had made his way to the Boulder Public Library, where he got access to a computer.
He sat down, ready to start his research.
The computer wanted a password.
Greg didn't have a password.
He stared at the screen for a long moment. Then he noticed a small sign taped to the monitor: GUEST ACCESS: Click “Guest” and accept terms of use.
Greg clicked “Guest” and a wall of text appeared. Terms of use.
How interesting.
Naturally, Greg leaned forward and read the entire document, learning very important things about acceptable use policies, prohibited content, privacy disclaimers, liability limitations, and the library's right to terminate access for violations.
Greg nodded. This seemed sensible. At the end of the document, he clicked “Accept” and was granted access.
Now. Money.
Greg opened the search engine and typed: how to make money fast
The results nearly overwhelmed him. 50 Ways to Make Quick Cash! Side Hustles That Actually Pay! Passive Income Secrets the Banks Don't Want You to Know!
Greg clicked the first link.
The article suggested selling plasma. Greg wasn't sure he had plasma.
It also suggested driving for something called Uber, which required a car (Greg didn't have a car), taking online surveys (the first survey site asked for a social security number, which Greg didn't have), and “monetizing your social media presence,” which seemed to require having a social media presence.
He scrolled further.
Content creation, the article said. Platforms like Patreon, YouTube, and FansOnly allow creators to earn money directly from their audience. Some creators earn thousands per month!
Thousands per month. That sounded like a lot. Surely that would cover dinner.
Greg clicked on the link to FansOnly.
The website was very pink.
Greg navigated to the sign-up page. It wanted an email address. After twenty minutes and four different services that demanded phone verification, Greg finally found one that only required him to click a box confirming he was human. This felt vaguely wrong, but he clicked it anyway.
Email address created, he returned to FansOnly.
The sign-up process asked many questions.
Name: Greg paused. His full name was Grigoreth, but that seemed formal for a content creation platform. He typed Greg.
Display name: What was a display name? The example said This is how your fans will see you. Greg didn't have fans. He typed Field Reaper Greg.
Date of birth: Greg stared at this field for a long time. He had no idea what date it had been on Earth when he’d popped into existence, but the form required a date. He typed in the earliest date the form would accept, which made him over one hundred years old.
Country: Greg selected United States, because that was where he currently was.
Then the website presented him with the Terms of Service.
Greg settled in to read.
By the time he finished, forty-three minutes had passed.
He clicked “Accept” and proceeded to set up his creator profile.
Content niche, the form requested. Tell potential subscribers what kind of content you'll create!
Huh. What kind of content could he create? What was he good at?
What unique perspective could he offer the humans of FansOnly?
Oh, of course.
He typed: Death and transition services. Sacred passage guidance. Information about the natural order and what awaits beyond the mortal threshold.
He clicked continue.
The next page wanted payment information. Specifically, it wanted a social security number for tax purposes.
Greg still didn't have one of those.
He stared at the required field. Maybe he could skip it? He scrolled down. There was no skip option. The form would not let him proceed without a social security number.
He went back to the profile page to see if he could at least save his progress.
A red banner had appeared at the top of the screen: Your account has been flagged for review. Content describing death, dying, or end-of-life services may violate community guidelines. Please contact support.
Wait, what?
Greg stared at the message.
But… Death was his area of expertise. It was the only content he had to offer. How could it violate guidelines?
He clicked on the support link, which took him to a help center with 847 articles. The contact form required a verified account, which he didn't have because his account had been flagged, which he couldn't resolve without contacting support.
Greg gave a deep sigh.
Mortal life was very difficult.
Greg left the library defeated.
He didn't understand how humans did this—how they navigated the endless bureaucracy of money, the forms and verifications and terms of service and flagged accounts. It was worse than reaper paperwork. At least reaper paperwork had clear guidelines.
There had to be another way.
He'd read about something called “panhandling” in one of the articles. Apparently, humans sometimes simply asked other humans for money.
Could that work for him?
He stood on the sidewalk, uncertain how to begin.
“Excuse me,” he said to a man walking past. “How does one acquire money?”
The man gave him a strange look and walked faster.
Greg tried again with a woman carrying shopping bags. “Pardon me. I need money for dinner. Do you know where I can find some?”
She clutched her bags tighter and crossed the street.
Greg sighed for what felt like the twentieth time that day.
He slumped onto a bench near the library entrance. He was bad at being human. He was bad at his job. He was bad at everything, apparently.
“Are you alright, dear?”
Greg looked up.
An elderly woman stood in front of him, a canvas tote bag over her shoulder, concern creasing her face. She had white hair pinned back in a soft bun and glasses that made her eyes look very large.
“I'm trying to acquire money,” Greg said. “For dinner. But the process is very complicated.”
The woman's expression shifted to something softer. She looked at his rumpled button-down, his slightly askew tie. “Are you hungry, sweetheart?”
“A little, I haven’t eaten in a day, and I made a promise to someone that I would pay for the meal next time.” Greg paused. “There might be burgers. I like burgers.”
The woman studied him for a long moment. Then she reached into her tote bag and pulled out her wallet.
“Here,” she said, pressing a bill into his hand. “Get yourself something to eat.”
Greg looked down. It was a five dollar bill.
“Thank you.” Greg’s chest swelled with gratitude. “This is very kind. Humans are very kind.”
The woman patted his hand. “You take care of yourself, dear.”
She walked away, glancing back once with a worried expression.
Greg clutched the five dollar bill and felt a surge of triumph.
He had money.
He could find Dustin now.
Finding Dustin was easy.
Greg thought of him, stepped through a door, and emerged in the parking lot of a budget motel off the highway.
His instincts led him to Room 107.
Taking a deep breath, Greg straightened his tie and checked that the five dollar bill was secure in his pocket.
Then he approached the door and knocked.
A few seconds later, the door swung open.
Dustin stood in the doorway, wearing sweatpants and a faded t-shirt, hair damp like he'd just showered. First he seemed annoyed to be seeing Greg, then he just looked exasperated. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I got money.” Greg pulled the five dollar bill from his pocket and held it up. “I can pay for dinner this time.”
“Dinner?” Dustin stared at the bill, then at Greg. “What dinner? You think—” He shook his head. “That’s five dollars, Greg. Were you gonna treat me to vending machine food?”
“Vending machine food?”
Dustin pinched the bridge of his nose. “How much do you think a meal costs?”
“I...” Greg faltered. He hadn't actually researched this part. “Several dollars?”
“Several dollars.”
“The woman gave me five. She seemed to think it was sufficient.”
“What woman?”
“A kind old woman outside the library. I asked her how to find money and she gave me this.”
Dustin was quiet for a long moment. His jaw worked like he was working through many thoughts in his head and didn’t know where to start voicing them. “You asked a random old lady for money,” he said finally.
“Yes.”
“And she just gave it to you.”
“She was very generous. I was moved.”
Dustin leaned against the doorframe, studying Greg once more. “Okay. I have to ask. What were you doing at a library?”
“Research.” Greg straightened slightly, regaining his footing. “I was investigating methods of acquiring currency. The internet suggested several options, but most of them required documentation I don't possess.”
“What kind of options?”
“Selling plasma. Driving for Uber. Creating content on FansOnly.”
Dustin choked.
“Are you alright?” Greg asked.
“You learned about FansOnly?”
“I started an account. But then my account was flagged for review. Apparently content about death and transition services violates community guidelines.” Greg frowned. “I read the entire terms of service. I still don't understand what kind of content they want.”
Dustin made a sound Greg couldn’t quite place. Was that laughter or a cough? His face had gone red.
“Oh my god,” Dustin managed. “Oh my god. You—” He broke off, wheezing. “What was your username?”
“Field Reaper Greg.”
Dustin lost it.
He bent over, hands on his knees, laughing so hard he couldn't breathe. Every time he seemed to be calming down, he'd look at Greg and start again.
Greg stood in the doorway with five dollars in one hand, clipboard in the other, and no idea what was happening.
“I don't understand,” he said. “Did I do something wrong?”
“Field—” Dustin gasped. “Field Reaper Greg. Content niche: death services.”
“It's my area of expertise.”
“That's not—” Dustin waved his hand in front of his face. “That's not what FansOnly is FOR, Greg.”
“The website said creators could monetize their unique skills. Death is my skill.”
Dustin finally straightened, wiping his eyes. He was still grinning—a real grin, not the sharp kind or the flirty kind Greg had seen before. It changed his whole face.
After a moment, though, the smile faded and a more sober expression settled on Dustin’s features as he regarded Greg. “Are you going to try to kill me again?” he asked.
“I don't know,” Greg replied honestly. “I hope not. Morrith ordered me to fix the situation. I’ve been ignoring his messages. I don't... I don't want to. But I don't know what happens if I keep failing. I don't know what they'll do.”
Dustin studied him for a long moment. Greg forced himself not to look away.
“So you're here because you're avoiding your boss.”
“I'm here because I made a promise about dinner.”
“With five dollars.”
“It seemed like enough.”
Dustin looked at him for another heartbeat or two, then the tension drained out of his shoulders. “You really don’t know anything,” he said, grabbing his jacket. “Okay. I’ll buy dinner. You can owe me.”
“But I made a promise—”
“And you showed up with five bucks you panhandled from a senior citizen after trying to start a death-themed FansOnly.” Dustin shook his head. “You’ve paid your dues.”
Greg considered this. It didn't feel quite right—he'd said he would pay, and he hadn't—but Dustin was already grabbing his jacket from inside the room.
“Come on, Greg.” He stepped past him into the parking lot. “Let’s go before I change my mind.”
Greg hurried after him, the five dollar bill still clutched in his hand.
He'd figure out human currency eventually.