The wiry man whipped out his hand and pointed with a dramatic flair. “Have a seat. If you qualify after this demonstration, you’ll be given a special seat in the real dream reaper.” I looked behind the salesman at a most unusual contraption.
The woman was in her late twenties or early thirties and appeared to be in good health. Youth was leaving her, as it does for all of us, but she was too immature to have attained wisdom.
The woman poured out her heart to the stranger in extraordinary detail, expounding on all the unfair and unjust things that had happened to her, leading to a life in the gutter of despair. Always the victim, she wallowed in self-pity and rejection.
The merchant smiled. “You’re just the right person for the dream reaper. You deserve better. Don’t worry about the cost. You can pay it off in the next thirty years before your date with death.”