Grim by Anna Waggener Page B

basket.
    She pulled away the cloth and felt the steam rising from each perfect little loaf.
    â€œHungry?”
    Erika set the basket down beside her glass.
    â€œNot especially,” she said.
    Jeremiah took a piece of bread for himself and broke it over his plate, the crust making a soft crackle in protest. “Have I upset you?”
    â€œNo more than I deserve.” Erika glanced over at him. “I feel awful, Jeremiah. I know that I shouldn’t have stolen your knife, but I just … I only … I’m worried about them.” She shook her head. “I want to see my kids.”
    â€œAnd I told you that you would,” Jeremiah said smoothly. “I don’t lie, Erika. There are some things that I simply cannot tell you right now, but I would never lie.”
    â€œBut you shouldn’t have to chase me into their dreams. You won’t get anything done for them if you do.”
    â€œYes. Well.” Jeremiah set aside his uneaten bread. Struggled for a moment to compose his thoughts. Finally, he sighed and reached for Erika’s glass. The dark wine barely splashed as he poured it onto her empty porcelain dinner plate.
    â€œGive me your earring,” he said.
    Erika took one of the Tahitian pearls from her ears and handed it to him. He dropped it onto the plate, the pearl’s rounded edge jutting out a little above the surface. They both watched as the ripples stilled and the pear-shaped lights of the candelabra became clear in the reflection.
    Jeremiah leaned in close and let a slow breath skim the wine, but it stayed blank.
    â€œThey aren’t sleeping any longer,” he said, drawing back to his own plate. “You can try later. But I warn you, Erika, some dreams are more true than we would like to think.”
    He didn’t give Erika time to respond before he lifted the lid from the platter in the middle of the table, revealing a leg of lamb on a bed of greens and fruit. Jeremiah reached over and placed a sprig of grapes in Erika’s empty soup bowl. “Eat something.”
    â€œI’m really not hungry.”
    â€œIt’ll make you feel more lively,” he said.
    â€œI don’t want to feel more lively. I’ve had enough excitement for one day.”
    Jeremiah pursed his lips and moved his hands from the serving ware. “Then talk,” he said. “Tell me about yourself.”
    â€œAbout me?”
    â€œWhat else would you tell me about?”
    Erika picked up her fork and nudged the pearl in circles around her plate. Wine dripped from its surface like blood as it tumbled over and over the bottom of the dish.
    â€œThe last thing I remember,” she said, “were lights. Headlights. Someone hit me, didn’t they? Is that why I’m here?”
    Jeremiah cleared his throat and flexed his fingers, then chose a thin slice of lamb for himself. It lay folded on his plate, steaming.
    â€œYes,” he said. “That’s why you’re here.”
    â€œAnd in the gas station. Did you know then?”
    â€œAt the end,” said Jeremiah slowly. “Just as you were driving off, I realized that there would be an accident.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you stop it?”
    Jeremiah let out a breath and looked away, down to the floor on his right. Then he looked back at his guest. “I’m not human, Erika,” he said. “I think you’ve gathered that much.”
    â€œDon’t make fun of me.”
    He nodded. “There are some things that I can’t control. That I’m not supposed to get my hands in. I’m a guide. I teach the dead how to die, and I show them where to go. Ferry them across. That’s all I’m supposed to do. It’s all I’m made to do.”
    â€œSo I’m dead?”
    Jeremiah stopped again, then reached out and took her hand from her fork. Held it tightly in one of his own. “I suppose,” he said, “that sometimes I can make