Death sighs like I’ve said something impossibly stupid. “No, it’s not a do-over. Not exactly.”

But I’ve stopped listening. Two words echo over and over in my head: one trial. That sounds promising. At the very least, it’s a chance, which is more than I thought I had a few minutes ago. I need this do-over. This can’t be the end.

“Can you tell me more about this trial?” I ask Death.

He lets out a heavy sigh, although he doesn’t seem surprised at my answer. “Everyone is entitled to one chance to avoid a permanent death. If you agree to the terms of the trial, you will be dropped somewhere back in time and tasked with trying to find out what choices led you to your demise, or if there were any paths you could have taken to avoid it entirely.” He crosses his arms. “There usually aren’t, just so you know.”

I grin, beyond excited at this opportunity. “I can do this. I know I can.”

“Touching,” he says drily, his tone sardonic and dripping with doubt. It doesn’t deter my spirits for a single second. “But you might want to think for longer than a couple seconds before you decide to gamble your afterlife. You can’t take it back once the trial starts, you know.”

I scoff. “Keep your misgivings to yourself. Every time someone’s told me I won’t succeed, I always manage to prove them wrong. And I always succeed, no matter how stacked the odds are against me.”

“You know, except for the whole dying thing,” he pointed out.

I wave my hand dismissively. “Clearly a minor issue. I’m about to fix it.”

Again his lip quirks up, as if he’s amused despite himself. “Then I suppose your answer is…”

“I want the do-over trial,” I say confidently. “I’ll do whatever it takes. What do I need to do?”

He shakes his head and sighs again. It seems to be one of his favorite activities, sighing, but he doesn’t bother asking me if I’m sure. Instead, he pulls out a black briefcase. It’s made of smooth, supple leather, so soft I want to run my hand across its face. I shiver, wondering what kind of animal Death fashions his tools out of. I doubt they’re just regular cows. Space cows?

Something glints from the corner. There’s a tiny skull where the lock would be. It’s elegantly and elaborately crafted, each tooth and crack lovingly carved into what appears to be real gold. I let out a nervous giggle.

I feel like I’m drunk. The absurdity of this situation has finally caught up to me. Yesterday, I was just a regular college junior whose biggest worry was what she was going to wear to a college party and the essay I had to finish before spring break started. Today, I’m bargaining with Death inside a reconstruction of my childhood bedroom after being murdered by my best friend.

I pinch myself and almost let out a yelp from the pain. My eyes water. Okay, this is definitely real. Not that I’d had much doubt from the get-go. I’m creative, but not this creative. I wouldn’t be able to imagine any of this on my own. Especially not this exquisite creature in front of me, beautiful and terrible and a little bit of a patronizing jerk at the same time.

I would have thought dying would be more dramatic. That there would have been a bright light at the end of the dark tunnel, with an omniscient voice (most likely a David Attenborough-type voice-over) urging me to head toward the light. This is almost a letdown in comparison, even if Death is startlingly attractive.

There’s something almost mundane about having a calm, collected conversation with Death in my old bedroom. I could almost believe my mom is about to burst into my room at any moment, throwing things into my backpack and yelling at me to get ready for school. I giggle at the thought.

Death pauses, frowning slightly. “What’s so funny?”

None of this is funny. I’m more overwhelmed than amused, my feelings scattered to the four winds. My thoughts are a blur, and the only way I know how to deal with it is to think of lighthearted things.

You’re in shock, I think matter-of-factly. I know the second I get to a safe place, I will break down. But for now, in front of Death, I put on a brave face. “It just seems like you’re really…committed to this bit. That’s all.”

He glares. I can feel the burn of it through the dark panes of his sunglasses. “This isn’t a bit. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll listen. This is your afterlife you’re gambling with, after all.”

I shrug. He shakes his head and turns away, muttering under his breath about “cowardly humans” and “not having the time for this.” He pulls out an old-fashioned timepiece attached to a silver chain from his pocket. It has five more hands than a regular clock and no numbers whatsoever. It looks closer to a graph than a traditional watch, although the lines are all jumbled and woven together rather than running in neat horizontals. I can’t make heads or tails of it, but whatever he sees in it only seems to annoy him further. He must be running late to his next “appointment.”

With a quick curse in a language that sounds oddly close to Latin, he slips the timepiece back into his pocket and whispers something to his briefcase. In his deep voice, the words sound like cursive, fluent and loopy and achingly sensual. To my surprise, the skull moves in response. Its jaw drops open, allowing him to pull out a single sheet of paper before snapping it shut again. It’s the same shimmery gray as his eyes, I notice, as he hands it to me.

“Sign it,” he says.

“I’ll read it first, thanks,” I snap. He looks like he wants to roll his eyes but stops himself halfway through.

I shouldn’t have even bothered. The words swim across the page, as if it only forms into English when I focus on it. As soon as my eyes leave one sentence, the typeface breaks apart, turning back into an alien alphabet I’ve never seen before. I look up questioningly.

“It’s written in a universal language,” Death explains. “It looks strange because your brain understands it, but can’t comprehend it.”

“Wha—” I begin asking, before changing my mind halfway through. “Never mind. I don’t think I have room to try to understand that right now.”

I return my attention back to the paper in front of me. It looks surprisingly normal for a contract with Death, although a few words pop out at me—namely survive and live. Hope flutters eagerly in my throat.

“Do you have a pen?” I ask impatiently.

He tsks again, sounding for all the world like an annoyed professor. “Read the paper first.”

“So if I accomplish this trial, I get to go back permanently?”

“Yes, that’s the gist of it.”

I nod, my body starting to shake from the anticipation. I won’t have to die! I’ll be able to go back! There are a startling amount of terms and conditions, but I know in my heart of hearts that none of them matter. There’s nothing in the world that could stop me from taking this chance.

“I need to do it. I’ll sign.”

He looks at me steadily. The only hint of his disapproval is the slight press of his lips. “Are you sure? You read through it pretty quickly.”

“I’ve made up my mind.”

He stills and sighs again before reaching into the briefcase and pulling out an old-fashioned quill. It’s the same void-black of his hair, and I shiver as it brushes against my hand, half convinced it’ll suck me into the deep space from where it undoubtedly came from. With a flourish, I sign my name along the dotted line at the bottom.

There is no fanfare, no explosions or a flash of bright light. Nothing happens now that I’ve signed my afterlife away, and once again I’m just slightly disappointed with how…mundane dying is.

Death takes the contract from me and tucks it away in his briefcase. “Now that that’s done…I’ll see you later, Giana.”

“Wha—”

But before I can finish my question, the world blurs again. It happens much faster this time, and the next time I blink, the world materializes again around me. I’m standing in a familiar room.

I glance around. I would recognize the pale wood floors and pastel walls anywhere. I’m standing in my room at the sorority house. My phone has materialized in my hand. I glance down at it, my breath catching as I realize it’s September 15.

I have exactly six months until March 15, 2024—my death day. The first day of spring break. Just six months to make sure I don’t die a second time and to beat Death at his own game.