By the time evening settled over the city, the apartment was blanketed in the warm, amber glow of a single floor lamp. The television screen flickered against the living room walls, playing a mindless, loud action movie that neither of them was truly paying attention to. A half-eaten box of pizza sat cold on the coffee table between them.
Amy was curled up on one end of the couch, wrapped in a plush blanket, her eyes drifting between the screen and Ken. Ken sat on the opposite end, his knees pulled up to his chest, his chin resting against them. He was staring directly through the television, his mind trapped in a recurring loop of surveillance footage—tears tracking down porcelain skin, an army of four hundred men erased from existence, and a agonizing twenty-four-hour freeze on death just so an old woman could say goodbye to her son.
It wasn't a miracle. It was a personal gift from Death himself.
