The Kill Clause

by Lisa Unger

In my case, if you’ve been very naughty and managed to anger the wrong people, I may be coming to see you in the night. I know when you are sleeping. I know when you’re awake. But that’s where the similarities end. Santa comes to give. I take.

That was the first thing I noticed about him—that flat, dead, entitled expression some men have. Like the world owes them. Like they can speak but don’t have to listen. Like they can take but only give when it serves them. Like other people exist to fulfill their needs and for no other reason.

Job stress. It’s a real killer.

But maybe that’s how you feel when you’re a rescue. Anything that’s not harm looks like love.

It’s no different than working for the government, except that most of our clients are in the private sector. I always believed Nora; her word to me was law and gospel.

That’s the condition of childhood. We’re at the mercy of our parents’ choices.

“Good job, kid,” said Nora when I rose. She reached over to wipe my tears. “Everything dies.” 58 “But not everything kills.”