Death - new voice

“Well, you’re doing a damn fine job in there, boy,” he said.

WHAT IS IT CALLED WHEN YOU FEEL WARM AND CONTENT AND WISH THINGS WOULD STAY THAT WAY?

“I guess you’d call it happiness,” said Harga.

Inside the tiny, cramped kitchen, strata’d with the grease of decades, Death spun and whirled, chopping, slicing and flying. His skillet flashed through the fetid steam.

He’d opened the door to the cold night air, and a dozen neighborhood cats had strolled in, attracted by the bowls of milk and meat—some of Harga’s best, if he’d known—that had been strategically placed around the floor. Occasionally Death would pause in his work and scratch one of them behind the ears.

“Happiness,” he said, and puzzled at the sound of his own voice.

***

Mort p147