I stare at his hand until he drops it, my mind scrambling to catch up to this latest turn of events.

It doesn’t help that this guy—no, Death—is staring at me with his creepy silver eyes. I’m not sure what to say to his sudden announcement. Not that I think anyone would blame me. Any sane, regular person would be freaked out if a random gray dude appeared in their childhood bedroom and declared he was the Grim Reaper, ready to ferry your soul to the underworld.

So I do what any sane, regular person would do. “No, thank you,” I blurt.

His eyes widen. It’s almost impossible to read the emotion in his molten silver gaze (if he has any at all), but I could swear I’ve taken him by surprise. His mouth opens, then closes, and opens again. “Did you just say ‘no, thank you?’”

I glance back at my bulletin board, taking in my wide smile as I accept the first-place prize at the debate tournament, my team cheering behind me. At the happy girl with so many interests, so many hopes and dreams. This has to be a mistake. And if there’s one thing I know I can do, it’s argue. There’s no way I can just give up and let my bright future slip away without even a fight.

Summoning all my courage, I give him a short nod, my eyes blazing with defiance. “Yes.”

“That’s not really an option,” he says dryly.

“What if it was a mistake?”

Death pauses, and I pounce on his moment of indecision. “I can prove it was a mistake. I can prove to you that I shouldn’t be dead.”

His lips quirk up into a sardonic smile. I narrow my eyes. “That better not be a patronizing smile.” The words slip out before I can stop them. I can practically hear my mother’s admonishing tone in my ear. Giana Marie Holland, you are talking to Death! Have a little respect!

Mom had spent the better part of my two decades on the planet trying to save me from my own sass. I couldn’t count how many times she had rushed to my side, apologizing a thousand times to my teacher, my counselor, other parents, other kids, and once, a priest, for my fast lip and even faster retorts. Mom would always groan and call me hopeless. Dad would chuckle, ruffle my hair, and call me his little firebrand.

Sorry, Mom and Dad, I think, pain lancing through my heart at the thought of them sobbing at my funeral. Guess I should have listened to you more.

Death, however, doesn’t look angry. He doesn’t even frown. Instead, he raises both hands in apology, his smile losing some of its sardonic edge. His fingers are slender and long, graceful in their stillness. I wonder bizarrely if he plays the piano. He puts his sunglasses back on, obscuring his strange moonbeam eyes. Even more bizarrely, I realize I’m disappointed I can’t see them anymore. He gestures at me to go on.

My argument appears like magic in my head, already outlined and ready to go. I thank my lucky stars that I decided to join the debate team my freshman year of high school. It might just save my life.

“I’m so young,” I begin.

He looks completely unimpressed with my opening salvo. He shrugs. “Young people die all the time.”

“But I have so much more that I want to do!”

Boredom settles like cobwebs across his angelic face. “Who doesn’t?”

Frustrated, I change tactics. Staring at my own reflection in his dark sunglasses, I try, “You care about humans, right?”

He snorts. It’s not a promising reaction, but at least it’s better than the boredom. If I amuse him, maybe he’ll let me stick around. “If you really think I’m going to change the cosmic rules for someone I met a few minutes ago, you’re in for an unhappy surprise.”

I skewer him with my best disbelieving stare, even though on the inside I’m quaking in my boots. I gesture toward his clothes. “So you wear stuff like that and cover your weird eyes—”

“Hey!” he interrupts, but I ignore him and continue plowing on.

“—because you want to?” I finish.

He tilts his head questioningly. “Look like what? You mean my skin? I can’t help that it looks like the moon on a hazy night.”

“What? No, that’s not what I meant at all.” If this wasn’t such a weird situation and he didn’t have my life in his hands, I’d laugh. At the moment, I don’t quite dare. “Who says stuff like that?”

He shrugs, completely unperturbed. “I’ve been described as such.”

Right. This is Death we’re talking about. He must have met tons of poets and whatnot. I secretly vow to myself to never let slip how eerily beautiful I thought he was when we first met. “I was talking about your torn jeans and your T-shirt. A little casual, no?”

He frowns. “I choose this form because it makes my job easier in this day and age. That’s it. Trying to ferry dead humans to the afterlife in my true form can be…challenging. You tend to be a cowardly bunch. Almost pathetically so.”

I roll my eyes. “Sounds like an excuse to me.”

He tsks, the light under his skin glowing fractionally brighter. “I really don’t have time for this. You’re not the only person who’s died tonight.”

I throw up my hands. “All the more reason to let me go! You’ve got people waiting for you, and I’m not going to give up anytime soon. Just put me back where I was, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

“I’m not a proponent of putting ghosts back into the world. It doesn’t usually turn out well, to put it delicately.”

I shake my head desperately. “No, that’s not what I meant. I’d like to be put back in my body! I don’t want to haunt anyone.”

“You’re fighting a losing battle,” he says dryly. “Why would I gamble with the natural order of things for you? This is how it’s supposed to be. Humans die, and I take them to what comes after. This is how it’s been for millennia. You’re not the first one to make a fuss, and you won’t be the last.”

He sighs, as if the sheer monotony of endless deaths from now to forever are weighing down his broad shoulders. I know that sigh. I’ve heard it before. It’s the sigh of a person staring into a future of nine-to-fives, trudging into the office where they would be trapped until the day they were old and gray.

I see my chance, and I seize it. “You know what that sounds like to me? It sounds boring. You’ve been doing the exact same job in the exact same way for millennia? Where’s the innovation? Where’s the evolution?”

He groans slightly, pinching the bridge of his nose. There’s a crack in his armor. I bite down on a grin and press my advantage. The thrill of the debate stage floods through my veins. My opponent is on his heels. Victory is just around the corner. I can taste it!

Careful, Gigi, I think. Don’t be too hasty now. This is your last chance.

Death’s patience is wearing thin. If I mess up now, he’ll whisk me away and I’ll never be able to get back to Earth. I’ll never hug my parents again. I’ll never be able to find out why Sydney, my best friend, stabbed me to death.

No. That is unacceptable. I have to succeed. This can’t be the end. It just can’t be.

“Do you think you’re the first person who has ever tried to bargain with me?” Death asks.

I shake my head. “But you think I’m worth a shot?” I ask hopefully.

“Maybe. Maybe not. I’m not the one who’ll decide that.”

“If not you, then who?” I demand.

“We have a system for unwilling souls like you.”

I brighten. “Great! That sounds fantastic. How do I sign up?”

He smiles. It’s not a nice smile. “Not so fast. The rules state all humans who ask are allowed one cosmic trial. But I can’t remember a single person ever succeeding. And I’m not sure you’ll like the consequences for failing.”

The threat makes me falter. “What do you mean? What kind of consequences?”

“Humans who do not pass the trial forfeit their option of a peaceful afterlife. Only torment for your hubris.”

“So by asking for a trial…” I prod. Good lord, getting details from Death is as painful as prying out a tooth.

“You’re essentially gambling away your… What do you humans call it? Your heaven, of sorts.” He says it like he’s reading out a grocery list.

“But what happens if I pass?”

“You get to go back.”

The words are music to my ears. For the first time since I’ve come to this cursed room, real hope starts fluttering at the edges of my heart. I might get out of here! I might get a second chance!

“Do you mean…I get a do-over?”