Epilogue
Hot summer sun bakes the homeless woman’s head. Somewhere nearby, camera shutters go off. Tourists laugh. A seagull squawks. A fly buzzes.
Her skin blisters, her throat is parched, but she is too hungry to lift her head, and too empty to raise her voice and beg for mercy.
Her signboard warps and cracks in the heat. The chalk words slump out of shape and are no longer legible, but she remembers them.
Death harvests not with a scythe, but with an outstretched hand.
Footsteps approach, clicking on cobblestones. They stop beside her head, and a shadow unfurls over her body as the figure blocks out the sun. A buzzing fly grows loud.
“Poor, famished lamb,” a voice croons. “They don’t see you anymore, do they? Come with me. I’ll find you something nourishing.”
And then he offers his hand.