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"Oh hell no," Emerson said, which wasn't part of the speech he'd prepared in case this ever happened, but he'd allowed himself a certain latitude. (Improvised preamble. Cussing.)
Ned opened his mouth, no doubt to say something self-evident and time-wasteful, like: 'I have some bad news' or 'You had a pretty bad fall there, Emerson'.
Emerson held up his hand. "My death. My minute. You can wait for your own."
"I don't get a minute," Ned said, sounding annoyingly reasonable. "I'm the minute-giver, not the minute-taker. In fact I-" He apparently saw Emerson's expression darkening. "Sorry, I get pedantic when I'm upset."
Emerson rubbed a hand over his eyes - to distract himself from having to think at first, and then more carefully. He'd hit his face against that ground, he remembered. "Do I-" he patted his forehead, his cheeks. "Do I look okay?" He felt okay. Maybe a little cold.
Ned raised his eyebrows. "Not that I'm judging you in any way, you understand. But is this really how you want to spend your minute?"
What kind of a question was that? Emerson didn't want to spend his minute at all. He wanted to save it for a rainy day. Let it accumulate interest. Oh hell, he thought. He was dead. He had a minute left to say everything he'd ever wanted to say, to think everything he'd ever wanted to think.
"Emerson," Ned said. He was still sounding insanely reasonable. "You have forty-six seconds."
Forty-six seconds. He'd written a speech. He'd timed it. Forty-five seconds. Forty-four. He couldn't remember the beginning. Or the middle. He tried to hear his thoughts over the tick-tick-ticking of his heartbeat running out. Forty-three seconds. Forty-two.
40
"Okay." He cleared his throat. He had to pull himself together. He could do it. He could. "Okay, yeah." Thirty-eight seconds. "I've stashed some cash."
He told Ned about all of his hiding places. In an envelope taped to the bottom of the trashcan in the kitchen. Between pages 30 and 31 of Playboy, June 1987. Between the mirror and the mirror frame in the bathroom. Rolled up with the novelty Ewok socks in his sock drawer. Sewn into the lining of his blue hat - the one in the closet, not the one on the coat rack. He glanced up. "Under the-" Ned was looking a little glazed-eyed.
"Am I boring you?" Emerson said. He wasn't sure if he was hurt or insulted. He was pouring out his soul here.
"What? No! I'm listening with bated breath."
"Don't look very bated to me." Emerson frowned. "Maybe you should take some notes."
"I am taking notes," Ned protested. "Mental notes. And I'm taking note. Go on. Behind the mirror." He looked at his watch. "Seventeen seconds."
"Behind the clock in the kitchen," Emerson continued grudgingly. "And in the crisper under the cauliflower."
He told Ned all his secrets places - he told him everything. He talked and he talked. And then he was done.
10
No, not quite done. He ground his teeth and steeled himself. "Also, tell my mom, uh- and my daughter, if- when she finds you, tell them-". Tell them what, he wondered. That he loved them?
"Tell them-" Ned prompted.
Emerson sighed. "Give them the cash."
And then he really was done. He swallowed. Goodbye uncomfortable metal slab, he thought. Goodbye Knit-Wit magazine and the sweet smell of yarn and the soft click-click-click that needles made when you got into a rhythm. Goodbye fresh crisp checks in the mail. He took another deep breath. A final one.
"All right," he said. "I'm ready."
0
"You lost track of time."
Ned winced. "A little bit."
"You lost track," Emerson said - he just needed to be sure - "of time."
"I really should get a stopwatch with an in-built alarm. And probably set it to 55 seconds rather than a minute. By the time the minute is up, it's too late. Mental note to self, get a stopwatch with an alarm."
"You lost track of time."
Ned gave him a look like he was about to blurt out: 'Are you mad at me for resurrecting you from the dead?' Emerson hoped he had the good sense to realise that grown men didn't say things like that, not even grown men who could bring people back from the dead.
"Look, I appreciate not being dead," Emerson said. "It's one of the things I want most out of life." He swallowed. "But at some point-" He jerked his head towards the door. "We gotta find out who got on the death train with my ticket."
"I've been trying not to think about it." Ned said. He bit his lip. "It's not like it was premeditated." He sounded a little defensive.
20
Emerson started to hoist himself up off the slab. He paused, mid-hoist. "I need to ask you something important," he said to Ned.
He must have looked serious. Ned nodded very seriously back. "All right."
"I need you to think hard before you answer."
"I'm doing mental arithmetic as a warmup. Seventeen plus 23 is 40."
Emerson nodded. "Good. Now, think. Did you. Bring me. Clothes."
Ned opened his mouth and then closed it. "Clothes. Well. No."
"No," Emerson repeated evenly.
"Remember when I said it wasn't premeditated? Well, I didn't bring any premeditated clothes."
There was a great deal of negotiation after that.
1200
In the end, Emerson got Ned's jacket. Ned got to keep his pants and his shirt. Emerson got the shroud. He wrapped it around his waist like a towel.
Outside, the coroner was alive and staring. Emerson felt a sick flare of relief. At least the dead person wasn't someone he knew, then. Probably.
"Hi," Emerson said to the coroner. "See, the thing is, I wasn't dead. I was... sleeping."
"Funny," the coroner said. "Because I distinctly remember you being dead when I pronounced you dead."
"I sleep like the dead," Emerson said.
The coroner looked at him.
Emerson looked at the coroner.
The coroner looked at him.
Ned cleared his throat. "So-" he looked around. "Anyone in the building die in the last- oh-" he checked his watch "-twenty-one minutes?"
The coroner looked at him.
He looked at the coroner.
"No."
"Good," Ned said. "Good. Very good. I'm glad we cleared that up. And now we should really. Go."
"Mmm hmm," the coroner said.
"You probably have questions," Emerson said as he started to shuffle out. He clutched his sheet with a grip of death.
"Am I still getting a cut of your cases?"
"Yes," Emerson said.
"Then I don't have questions."
The End.