Rowan looked to the screen, grimacing, and pointed to the man with bed-hair. “Him,” Rowan said. “Glean him.” Rowan closed his eyes. He had just condemned a man to death because he’d had a bad hair day. Then he felt Faraday put a firm hand on his shoulder. He thought he’d get a reprimand, but instead, the scythe said, “Well done.” Rowan opened his eyes. “Thank you, sir.” “Were this not the hardest thing you’ve ever done, I’d be concerned.” “Does it ever get easier?” Rowan asked. “I certainly hope not,” the scythe said.
