“Why tell me all this?” she asked. When he spoke, his voice was soft and almost regretful. “Promises were made,” he whispered. “Promises were not kept. So, maybe I’m feeling a bit bold, too.” “What promises?” she asked. “What do you think happens when you die?” he asked her. She did not need to think. “Nothing,” she said. “Blackness. Silence.” He gave a deep, shuddering sigh. “Sweet merciful Jesus,” he whispered. “We should be so lucky.”
