Dying…
“Gustav?” I called. “Where are you, man?”
I saw Gustav’s last date, a Japanese woman in a silver dress, helping another woman pack a napkin to a wound on her forehead. I scanned the room again, nothing, then looked lower and saw Gustav’s shoes. He lay face down by his last dating station.
“Oh, no, Gustav!” I rushed to him.
Being so accustomed to watching the dead move, it’s easy to forget how deeply disturbing an utterly still body can be. Gustav lay spread-eagled, a splintered piece of window frame and several shards of glass driven into the back of his neck at the base of his skull. I knelt beside him, reached for the spike, then drew my hands back, knowing I could do nothing. The wood had penetrated into his brain or his spinal cord. Blood welled up around it and spilled onto
