“Because they had company when they got on board,” Martin Lorensen told him. “They weren’t alone. None of them. When you die, you aren’t alone. They’re always there, at the end, to collect you.” “They?” Duvall asked, the skin on his forearms prickling with goose bumps. In the bookstore café, Martin had come across as a cheerful class clown but entirely sane. It always gave Duvall a chill when someone who was mentally disturbed dropped his mask and showed his real face.
