The Toll (Arc of a Scythe, #3)

by Neal Shusterman

Scythe Faraday put up his hand to quiet them, then leaned closer to the man. “Do you wish me to help you?” The man nodded. “Very well.” Faraday took out from his robe a small jar and popped open a safety lid. Then he slipped on a protective glove. “I have chosen for you a soothing balm. It will relax you. You may notice a brightening of colors, and a sense of euphoria. And then you will sleep.” He bade the man’s family to move in around him. “Take his hands,” Faraday told them. “But be careful not to touch any place where I apply the balm.” Then Faraday dipped two gloved fingers into the oily salve and began to spread it across the dying man’s forehead and cheeks. Faraday stroked the man’s face gently, moving down to his neck as he spread the balm. Then he spoke to the man in a voice that was barely a whisper. “Colton Gifford,” he said. “You have lived an exemplary life these past sixty-three years. You’ve raised five wonderful children. The restaurant you began and ran for much of your life has brought joy to tens of thousands over the years. You have made people’s lives a little bit better. You’ve made the world a finer place.” Gifford moaned slightly, but not from pain. It was clear from the look in his eyes that the balm was having its euphoric effect. “You are loved by many, and will be remembered long after your light goes out today.” Faraday continued to smooth in the salve on his face. Across his nose. Beneath his eyes. “You have much to be proud of, Colton. Much t...