The plummet from the twenty-third story was surprisingly short. There was barely time to get accustomed to the rush of wind, limbs sprawling, the upward rush sending Tom topsy-turvy until he hit the ground, the whole journey taking three seconds before impact with the ground.
“Dude. You all right?”
Tom looked up at Finn standing over him. Well, his remains. Now, Tom was standing in the exact same clothes, and they watched his body fade into nothing.
“How many lives do you have left?”
“Five. I picked one up by the Starbucks.”
“Why’d you use one?”
He shrugged. “Slow day.”
—
“It looks like you’re having a burrito.”
The husband and wife looked up at the sonogram with vacant expressions, and as the doctor moved the wand over her jellied stomach, they could make out the curve of the tortilla wrap, the satisfying elongated roundness.
“The tests show beans, cheese, guacamole…ah, and chicken.”
He squeezed her hand as her eyes filled with tears.
“As you progress, we’re expecting sour cream. Maybe lettuce.”
She ran her hands through her hair, face tightening. The doctor smiled comfortingly.
“Just so long as it’s healthy,” the husband said, and she nodded, relieved laughter bubbling forth.
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