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Description
Policy states: Any and all employees – including managers, assistant managers, and key-holding employees – must notify to three fellow employees of higher rank (equal and/or higher for asst. managers and managers) at least a week ahead of time if they are to take any days off (at most, due to work requirement for each week, only two [2] days in a row, can be taken, no more than twenty [20] days in a year, six [6] days in a month). Days taken off must have reputable reasoning and approval from higher ranked employees (and/or equal rank for asst. managers and managers), and must have such approvals in writing and notarized. Each one of my employees understood this policy, giving sound reason as to days taken, and barring the one occasion Judith Henderson had swine flu and was out for a week, no one has needed more than a couple of days for personal reasons. So when Danielle Gray called me up saying she wanted a certain day off far into the future because she was going to die, I had to deny her a written notarization.
"You're going to die," I more said than asked her.
"Yes," she casually replied.
"I'm sorry, Miss Gray, I really can't give you those days off if you're just going to die. Are you sick?"
"No."
"Are you ill with something terrible? A cancer or some ailment?"
"No."
"Miss Gray, I don't understand."
"Michael, I'm just certain. I don't know how or exactly what time, but I've got a pretty sure feeling I'm going to die on that Monday in about three weeks."
"Have you asked two other ranked employees for the day off?" Not that it mattered, I thought. I am the manager.
"I've told – "
" – You've told?" I asked as I squeezed the receiver.
"Well, Michael, with all due respect, they really didn't have a choice, I'm going to take the days off whether they'd have it or not, and they told me to ask you anyway – "
" – They sure better have." I loosened my grip. "Look, Miss Gray, I'm really sorry, but that's just absurd. No one knows when they're going to die, even if they're struck with some great misfortune."
"I'm only trying to adhere to the policies – "
" – which I appreciate, Miss Gray, but I really am sorry. I cannot give you those days off." I heard her moving, perhaps out of discomfort. I was sure she didn't like my response on the matter.
"Fine," she finally responded with a breath of resignation, "but it's in another three weeks, anyway. I was only trying to let you know far ahead of time. I'll try talking to you again about it before then. Maybe I could change your mind."
"Miss Gray, if you need the day off, just tell me what you want to do, maybe I'll let you swing by even if it's something silly."
"I'm really going to die."
"I really don't believe you."
"Fine. I'll see you at work tomorrow." She hung up on me before I could say anything.

The next day rolled by at the office. I saw Danielle in passing a few times and I tried to make eye contact with her, but she was either talking with other employees during break or busy doing something and couldn't stop to chat. I decided the matter to be over with, when a week later, on her usual day off, she called again.
"Michael, you should really give me that Monday off."
I couldn't help but sigh at her.
"Miss Gray, are you in some sort of trouble I should know about?"
"No."
"Have you any known enemies that have expressed violent tendencies towards you?"
"Michael, no one wants to hurt me."
"I do not have, even the slightest bit, the want or desire to give you these days off because your reasoning is so confounding."
"It isn't any more than the one day."
"You know, if you actually think you're really going to die, why not just put in your two-week notice? You're not going to need this job after your dead, now are you?"
"No, I guess I won't, but honestly, I like this job enough. I don't want to make it seem as though I'm being defiant or ungrateful. I honestly do want to keep this job. I'd really just like that day off."
"Miss Gray, you're absurd."
"I'm just following protocol, like you'd have me do – "
" – to which I greatly appreciate, but," she attempted to interrupt but I cut her off, "policy states that only with reputable reasoning and written approval can I give you time away. You have given me none of the former and therefore I can give you none of the latter, Miss Gray. I am truly sorry." There was a brief silence before she curtly responded.
"I'll talk with you about this later," and she hung up on me. I happened to look at my desk calendar just as I replaced the receiver on the hook. I had a meeting that afternoon with some people from the franchises and then some work had to be done with accounting and their numbers. If she were to die on that Monday, then she only had seventeen days left. I wrote the number on a Post-it and stuck it on the bottom of my computer monitor on my desk.

The weekend passed and the following business day I made an impromptu appointment to speak with my assistant manager, Tim, a husky fellow, whose weight never reflected the gravity of his concern.
"Tim, I need your advice. It's about Miss Gray," I told him as he plopped down into the chair across from my desk, letting his girth settle into the groaning wood frame.
"The whole 'dying' thing, right?" He made air-quotes as he slouched.
"It's bothersome, honestly. I don't believe this amount of insubordination for a couple of days off is allowable." Tim stared vacantly beyond me, scratching himself idly as he passively listened. After a moment or two, he chimed.
"You think she lying?"
"Well of course she is! Knowing when you're going to die is ludicrous!"
"Yeah, well, I guess she figured no one's ever used it before. As an excuse, that is."
"Well I'm sure, somewhere in the history of business, someone has attempted to use it."
"I've never heard it before. Think she's got cancer or something?"
"She told me she doesn't have cancer."
"What about AIDS?"
"She's not sick, Tim."
"I wouldn't say that."
"How do you mean?"
"Girl's batshit crazy." I frowned at his response.
"What makes you think she's, well, this kind of crazy?" Tim shifted his bulk around and the chair moaned.
"Let me tell you, Mike. It was about three or so months ago. Danielle was looking a bit uneasy calling numbers and talking to customers on the phone at her desk. She kept giving the Williams kid looks, funny looks, like she was about to start crying if she kept looking at him. She went up to him later that day, after her call sales pretty much went down the tubes, and whispered something to him. He looked pretty annoyed, got up in a huff, and told me he was taking his break early. Fifteen minutes later, he comes back, less pissed, more sad-looking, and told me he's like the rest of the day off. I let him go, he got most of the work he needed to get done that day, but the next few days he was really worse for the wear. You remember when Williams called in unexpectedly and took that Friday off? His uncle died. Heart attack. From what I hear, the damn girl told him it was going to happen."
"That's completely ridiculous, Tim."
"Isn't it? Damn girl's batshit crazy. Or a witch."
"No, that's not what I meant. I'm saying that I don't believe it for a second." Tim looked at me pensively, like I just told him he was stupid or that there weren't any donuts left in the break room.
"Oh, no, yeah, she's an absolute liar. Or, you know, it was just a rumor and all," he said with a facade of agreement, nodding vigorously so his chin jiggled.
I had him leave; as he did, I looked at the Post-it. I crossed out the "17" and wrote "14."

Danielle didn't seemed affected by the notion of dying. She went through her days at work like they were any day, and not once did she attempt to bring up the matter in person at the office. I made a few attempts to say hi to her. Maybe if I greeted her more often than usual, ask her how she was doing, she'd confide in me. I thought she might be depressed and perhaps this was her way of reaching out. I got it in my head that she might be planning to do something drastic, and on the Friday of that week, when she called a third time to ask me for the day off, I confronted her.
"Danielle, is everything okay? Is the work too stressful for you? I mean, I know I'm fairly strict about the job and having everyone be here." At this, I thought I heard an indigent titter from her. I continued. "I just hope everything's alright. I wouldn't want you to do...anything." There was a brief pause and she spoke.
"Michael, I'm fine. Really." Her tone was uncomfortably casual.
"I'm having a hard time believing you," I told her.
"Look, what will happen, will happen. I have no doubt about that."
"See, that's awkward. How could you be so blasé about something like death?"
"So you believe me now?"
"No! Well, not really. I just hope you aren't thinking of anything."
"I'm not sure I follow, Michael."
"I'm just hoping you aren't going to do anything to yourself." I paused to see if she'd say anything. Maybe I had struck a chord with her and finally gotten to the bottom of this. Maybe I had routed out the real problem and she'd tell me what was really going on and why she'd consigned herself to a possibly self-destructive end. Silence was all I heard on the other side.
Then she started laughing at me.
"Do you really think I'm going to kill myself?" She managed to ask in between her displaced amusement.
"Actually, I did. Now I'm not so sure."
"No reason to be stern! I'm thankful that you'd have this kind of concern for me. It's just surprising, really. I'm sorry to laugh at you. I really do appreciate it. No, I'm not sad or depressed and I'm not going to kill myself."
"Well good. I'm glad that's settled. So you'll be here on the Monday then?"
"No, I still need it off."
"Oh, c'mon now, Danielle!"
"I'm sorry, I really need it off. I really won't be coming into work and you really shouldn't expect me. I would rather you not hold it against me when I don't show up."
"You cannot be serious!"
"I'm afraid I am."
"Danielle, you are not going to die."
"Yes I am." And with that, she hung up on me. I looked at the Post-it. I was about to cross out the "14" and write in "10," but instead I pulled it off my monitor and threw it in the bin.

With nine days left, I called up Danielle that Saturday. It was a day off for the both of us, so I asked her out to coffee. I'm not sure how she took to the idea of going out, and I wasn't really trying to socially consort with employees, especially ones who worked under me, but I really had to get to the bottom of this. She agreed, almost too easily, and we met downtown at a shop near the office. We stood in the line, waiting for our turn.
"Why are you wearing a suit, Michael? It's Saturday." I looked down at myself.
"I can't say I want to present myself in any other light aside from being your manager."
"Such a professional," she said in a particular tone. I couldn't tell if she was being snide or flirtatious. I decided to ignore it and place my order.
"I'll take a grande triple ristretto 5-pump one-percent caffe mocha, please. Double-cup it. Save the whip."
"My, aren't we particular," Danielle said behind me.
"If I'm paying that much for coffee, I want it the way I want it." She gave me a judging glance, then pushed passed me to the barista.
"I'll have a small tea. The light kind. Nothing in it," she jerks a finger to me, "he's paying."

We sat down and I treated the intimate table by a window like it was a smaller version of my desk.
"Danielle, I've asked you here – "
" – You know, you used to call me 'Miss Gray.'" I was startled by her interruption, but even more so because she was right. I looked at her for a bit, then she continued, "Oh, no! It's interesting. I'm just pointing it out. Go on. You asked me here...?" I stared at her for a bit and then gathered myself.
"I've asked you here because I'm truly concerned about you. You've forced me to take this outside of the workplace. While I am fairly passionate about my job," as I said this, she rolled her eyes. I gave her an immediate look of disapproval, then continued on, "if the course of action is to upset the status quo of professionalism to talk some sense into you, then as your superior, I must take that course to insure stability amongst the ranks."
Her arms had been crossed and she looked at me as though she might not have comprehended everything I had just said. She uncrossed her arms and leaned forward on the table between us. She looked at me directly, and without a hint of hesitation or insincerity in her voice, she simply said:
"I am taking off that Monday."
"Miss Gray! This is outrageous! You can't be serious in trying to convince me that in nine days, you are going to die."
"Hmm. You're keeping count."
"Indeed, I am. Perhaps as a measure to understand your unusual practices. Why can't you just confess as to what it is you may want to do on that day? Is there some event or personal holiday I'm not aware of?"
"No."
"Are you going somewhere?"
"No."
"Did you plan an engagement of some sort and do not wish to go back on your promises?"
"No."
"Are you part of some cult that eats pills and hallucinates about aliens?"
"No."
"Danielle, I really and honesty do not understand."
"It's simple."
"No it isn't!"
"You know you're making it more difficult than it really is."
"How can you know that you are going to die?"
"I have a feeling."
"You have a feeling," I more said than asked her.
"Yeah. It's like a gut feeling. You know, almost like instinct."
"So your instinct is telling you that you're going to die in nine days?"
"There abouts, yes."
"You are either telling the unbelievable truth, or Tim was right about you."
"Well that's quite unprofessional of you. Naming names. What did he say? That I was 'batshit' crazy?"
"Actually, verbatim, yes."
"And that I told Chester Williams that his uncle was going to die?" I shifted back in my seat. I'm sure I was noticeably uncomfortable. "Rumor's true. I did tell Chester that."
I looked at her for a while. She was extremely nonchalant; leaning there, on the table, her head propped up on her hands like a grade-schooler listening to a halfhearted reading of a fairytale; she neither seemed bothered nor amused at what she was saying. She reached for her tea, took a sip, placed it back on the table, and then got up.
"I'm taking the Monday off." And with that, she walked away.

Eight days left. I had a difficult time sleeping the night before. It was Sunday, and while I usually stayed home and relaxed, I found myself wandering around the neighborhood, wondering.
Seven days left. I was ten minutes late to work because I had left my coffee cup on the top of my car when I pulled out of the driveway. When I made the brief turn rolling back into the street, the mug slid down the roof and across the windshield, spilling coffee on my hood, and then rolled off, shattering on the street.
Six days. When I had gotten to work, I realized that I had forgotten to put on a tie. On the way home I wasn't paying attention and mounted the right hand curb, taking out two parking meters and a no-parking sign. I took my car to the shop to get fixed and took the bus home.
Five. I got up early and rode the bus to work. For the past two days at work I had been avoiding seeing Danielle in passing, but today I accidentally caught her in the elevator going up to the office after lunch. We didn't say much, but she made a comment about my hair not being combed. I went to the bathroom when we reached our floor, and also realized I hadn't shave either.
Four. I forgot to set my alarm the night before and overslept. I was five hours late to work.
Three. I made sure I got up early. I combed my hair, shaved, wore a tie, and held on tight to my coffee. I got to work early before anyone else. I settled into my office and began some paper work. I went to the copy room, and, thinking I was still alone, walked in without much hesitation. I was startled to find Chester Williams and Judith Henderson kissing passionately, Judith sitting on top of the copier that I needed to use. Needless to say, expletives were yelled, and I walked out embarrassed, leaving the two of them to their own devices. Each came in to my office later to apologize. I waved them off, but the rest of day, when I needed any copies made, I made Tim do it for me.
Two days. It was the weekend. As per usual, it's two days I have all to myself. Despite that fact, I picked up the phone as soon as I got up from a restless sleep and dialed Danielle's number. It rang once, and I slammed it down on the hook. I repeated this about four times throughout the day. I went to the corner store and bought vodka and orange juice to help me sleep.
One. I woke up hungover. There was vomit on my only clean suit I had out for the next work day. I laid in bed for another three hours before I got up. I didn't hesitate to call Danielle when I had the ability to see straight. She answered almost immediately.
"Finally. Caught it right when it rang. Now you can't hang up."
"Danielle..."
"Jesus, Michael, you sound like shit."
"Don't...don't curse. I don't like it."
"I'm sorry. But you do."
"Danielle. Please don't die."
"Michael, are you alright?"
"No, I'm hungover."
"Did you go out drinking?"
"No, I stayed in and drank."
"By yourself?"
I didn't respond.
"Michael, I'm coming over," she said, and then she hung up on me. I threw the phone somewhere behind me. Getting up was difficult, but I managed, and then headed into the kitchen to make coffee and take aspirin.

Danielle arrived at my place not long after. She found me sitting in a chair with a cold mug of coffee in my hand and my face down on the kitchen table. I was aware of her presence with a splash of cold water on my head .
"You really ought to lock your front door. Anyone could walk in."
"Please don't die," I said with my head to one side, still on the table, soaking wet.
"I'm not going to die yet." She helped me out of the chair.
"Danielle, I don't want you to die at all."
"Well that's just too bad now, isn't it?"
She helped me onto the couch in the living room and then went back into the kitchen.
"I'm making you coffee, the kind you made smells awful."
"It's decaf."
"Yeah, see, that's why you're still drunk."
She made a few cups for me and I slowly came about.
"Danielle, stay here. Stay the night."
"Excuse me?"
"I just want to make sure you'll be okay. I just want you to be safe."
"Michael, there isn't a thing you can do about it. I will die tomorrow and it's completely out of your hands."
"I still haven't given you the day off."
"If you can't tell, I don't really care."
Despite what she may have felt, she actually stayed. Perhaps just to humor me, but I didn't care. I made up the couch for her to sleep on, making sure she didn't go into my room. Even though I should have, I didn't sleep. I looked out the windows and drank coffee through to the evening. At around 11:50PM, I started staring at the clock. The second-hand seemed to be waving goodbye with each revolution. I winced a bit when all three hands came together, pointing straight up to the twelve. When I looked to Danielle, who was fast asleep and very much alive, I heaved a cautious sigh of relief and sat in a chair by her side.
At about five in the morning, Danielle poked me awake. I wiped the drool from my face, feeling happier than I had in days.
"See, you're alive," I said with a smile.
"So far," she replied, not a hint of fear in her voice. She began to collect her things.
"Wait, where are you going?"
"I'm going home."
"No, you're staying."
"What? Michael, you can't hold me prisoner in your house."
"I'm sorry, but I'm really going to have to do just that."
"You're out of your mind," she said as she went for the door. I ran and beat her to it. I barred myself across, not permitting her. She looked at me with sore eyes.
"Michael, you're really sweet, but I can't stay here." She leaned in and kissed me on the cheek. I relinquished my hands from the door. She pushed passed me, turned the handle, and walked out. I stood there for a moment, then went out after her.
As I stepped out in the morning light, the dew of my front lawn wetting the soles of my feet, I looked up and down the street, only to find that Danielle wasn't anywhere to be seen. There was no car, not even the sound of one leaving my neighborhood. I heard birds twittering and a dog barking far in the distance. I didn't want to go back into the house. I wasn't sure if I could, and if I did, I'd be afraid of what I might find. I decided to take the day off. I'd make my own written notarization later.

Description
Policy states: Any and all employees – including managers, assistant managers, and key-holding employees – must notify to three fellow employees of higher rank (equal and/or higher for asst. managers and managers) at least a week ahead of time if they are to take any days off (at most, due to work requirement for each week, only two [2] days in a row, can be taken, no more than twenty [20] days in a year, six [6] days in a month). Days taken off must have reputable reasoning and approval from higher ranked employees (and/or equal rank for asst. managers and managers), and must have such approvals in writing and notarized. Each one of my employees understood this policy, giving sound reason as to days taken, and barring the one occasion Judith Henderson had swine flu and was out for a week, no one has needed more than a couple of days for personal reasons. So when Danielle Gray called me up saying she wanted a certain day off far into the future because she was going to die, I had to deny her a written notarization.
"You're going to die," I more said than asked her.
"Yes," she casually replied.
"I'm sorry, Miss Gray, I really can't give you those days off if you're just going to die. Are you sick?"
"No."
"Are you ill with something terrible? A cancer or some ailment?"
"No."
"Miss Gray, I don't understand."
"Michael, I'm just certain. I don't know how or exactly what time, but I've got a pretty sure feeling I'm going to die on that Monday in about three weeks."
"Have you asked two other ranked employees for the day off?" Not that it mattered, I thought. I am the manager.
"I've told – "
" – You've told?" I asked as I squeezed the receiver.
"Well, Michael, with all due respect, they really didn't have a choice, I'm going to take the days off whether they'd have it or not, and they told me to ask you anyway – "
" – They sure better have." I loosened my grip. "Look, Miss Gray, I'm really sorry, but that's just absurd. No one knows when they're going to die, even if they're struck with some great misfortune."
"I'm only trying to adhere to the policies – "
" – which I appreciate, Miss Gray, but I really am sorry. I cannot give you those days off." I heard her moving, perhaps out of discomfort. I was sure she didn't like my response on the matter.
"Fine," she finally responded with a breath of resignation, "but it's in another three weeks, anyway. I was only trying to let you know far ahead of time. I'll try talking to you again about it before then. Maybe I could change your mind."
"Miss Gray, if you need the day off, just tell me what you want to do, maybe I'll let you swing by even if it's something silly."
"I'm really going to die."
"I really don't believe you."
"Fine. I'll see you at work tomorrow." She hung up on me before I could say anything.

The next day rolled by at the office. I saw Danielle in passing a few times and I tried to make eye contact with her, but she was either talking with other employees during break or busy doing something and couldn't stop to chat. I decided the matter to be over with, when a week later, on her usual day off, she called again.
"Michael, you should really give me that Monday off."
I couldn't help but sigh at her.
"Miss Gray, are you in some sort of trouble I should know about?"
"No."
"Have you any known enemies that have expressed violent tendencies towards you?"
"Michael, no one wants to hurt me."
"I do not have, even the slightest bit, the want or desire to give you these days off because your reasoning is so confounding."
"It isn't any more than the one day."
"You know, if you actually think you're really going to die, why not just put in your two-week notice? You're not going to need this job after your dead, now are you?"
"No, I guess I won't, but honestly, I like this job enough. I don't want to make it seem as though I'm being defiant or ungrateful. I honestly do want to keep this job. I'd really just like that day off."
"Miss Gray, you're absurd."
"I'm just following protocol, like you'd have me do – "
" – to which I greatly appreciate, but," she attempted to interrupt but I cut her off, "policy states that only with reputable reasoning and written approval can I give you time away. You have given me none of the former and therefore I can give you none of the latter, Miss Gray. I am truly sorry." There was a brief silence before she curtly responded.
"I'll talk with you about this later," and she hung up on me. I happened to look at my desk calendar just as I replaced the receiver on the hook. I had a meeting that afternoon with some people from the franchises and then some work had to be done with accounting and their numbers. If she were to die on that Monday, then she only had seventeen days left. I wrote the number on a Post-it and stuck it on the bottom of my computer monitor on my desk.

The weekend passed and the following business day I made an impromptu appointment to speak with my assistant manager, Tim, a husky fellow, whose weight never reflected the gravity of his concern.
"Tim, I need your advice. It's about Miss Gray," I told him as he plopped down into the chair across from my desk, letting his girth settle into the groaning wood frame.
"The whole 'dying' thing, right?" He made air-quotes as he slouched.
"It's bothersome, honestly. I don't believe this amount of insubordination for a couple of days off is allowable." Tim stared vacantly beyond me, scratching himself idly as he passively listened. After a moment or two, he chimed.
"You think she lying?"
"Well of course she is! Knowing when you're going to die is ludicrous!"
"Yeah, well, I guess she figured no one's ever used it before. As an excuse, that is."
"Well I'm sure, somewhere in the history of business, someone has attempted to use it."
"I've never heard it before. Think she's got cancer or something?"
"She told me she doesn't have cancer."
"What about AIDS?"
"She's not sick, Tim."
"I wouldn't say that."
"How do you mean?"
"Girl's batshit crazy." I frowned at his response.
"What makes you think she's, well, this kind of crazy?" Tim shifted his bulk around and the chair moaned.
"Let me tell you, Mike. It was about three or so months ago. Danielle was looking a bit uneasy calling numbers and talking to customers on the phone at her desk. She kept giving the Williams kid looks, funny looks, like she was about to start crying if she kept looking at him. She went up to him later that day, after her call sales pretty much went down the tubes, and whispered something to him. He looked pretty annoyed, got up in a huff, and told me he was taking his break early. Fifteen minutes later, he comes back, less pissed, more sad-looking, and told me he's like the rest of the day off. I let him go, he got most of the work he needed to get done that day, but the next few days he was really worse for the wear. You remember when Williams called in unexpectedly and took that Friday off? His uncle died. Heart attack. From what I hear, the damn girl told him it was going to happen."
"That's completely ridiculous, Tim."
"Isn't it? Damn girl's batshit crazy. Or a witch."
"No, that's not what I meant. I'm saying that I don't believe it for a second." Tim looked at me pensively, like I just told him he was stupid or that there weren't any donuts left in the break room.
"Oh, no, yeah, she's an absolute liar. Or, you know, it was just a rumor and all," he said with a facade of agreement, nodding vigorously so his chin jiggled.
I had him leave; as he did, I looked at the Post-it. I crossed out the "17" and wrote "14."

Danielle didn't seemed affected by the notion of dying. She went through her days at work like they were any day, and not once did she attempt to bring up the matter in person at the office. I made a few attempts to say hi to her. Maybe if I greeted her more often than usual, ask her how she was doing, she'd confide in me. I thought she might be depressed and perhaps this was her way of reaching out. I got it in my head that she might be planning to do something drastic, and on the Friday of that week, when she called a third time to ask me for the day off, I confronted her.
"Danielle, is everything okay? Is the work too stressful for you? I mean, I know I'm fairly strict about the job and having everyone be here." At this, I thought I heard an indigent titter from her. I continued. "I just hope everything's alright. I wouldn't want you to do...anything." There was a brief pause and she spoke.
"Michael, I'm fine. Really." Her tone was uncomfortably casual.
"I'm having a hard time believing you," I told her.
"Look, what will happen, will happen. I have no doubt about that."
"See, that's awkward. How could you be so blasé about something like death?"
"So you believe me now?"
"No! Well, not really. I just hope you aren't thinking of anything."
"I'm not sure I follow, Michael."
"I'm just hoping you aren't going to do anything to yourself." I paused to see if she'd say anything. Maybe I had struck a chord with her and finally gotten to the bottom of this. Maybe I had routed out the real problem and she'd tell me what was really going on and why she'd consigned herself to a possibly self-destructive end. Silence was all I heard on the other side.
Then she started laughing at me.
"Do you really think I'm going to kill myself?" She managed to ask in between her displaced amusement.
"Actually, I did. Now I'm not so sure."
"No reason to be stern! I'm thankful that you'd have this kind of concern for me. It's just surprising, really. I'm sorry to laugh at you. I really do appreciate it. No, I'm not sad or depressed and I'm not going to kill myself."
"Well good. I'm glad that's settled. So you'll be here on the Monday then?"
"No, I still need it off."
"Oh, c'mon now, Danielle!"
"I'm sorry, I really need it off. I really won't be coming into work and you really shouldn't expect me. I would rather you not hold it against me when I don't show up."
"You cannot be serious!"
"I'm afraid I am."
"Danielle, you are not going to die."
"Yes I am." And with that, she hung up on me. I looked at the Post-it. I was about to cross out the "14" and write in "10," but instead I pulled it off my monitor and threw it in the bin.

With nine days left, I called up Danielle that Saturday. It was a day off for the both of us, so I asked her out to coffee. I'm not sure how she took to the idea of going out, and I wasn't really trying to socially consort with employees, especially ones who worked under me, but I really had to get to the bottom of this. She agreed, almost too easily, and we met downtown at a shop near the office. We stood in the line, waiting for our turn.
"Why are you wearing a suit, Michael? It's Saturday." I looked down at myself.
"I can't say I want to present myself in any other light aside from being your manager."
"Such a professional," she said in a particular tone. I couldn't tell if she was being snide or flirtatious. I decided to ignore it and place my order.
"I'll take a grande triple ristretto 5-pump one-percent caffe mocha, please. Double-cup it. Save the whip."
"My, aren't we particular," Danielle said behind me.
"If I'm paying that much for coffee, I want it the way I want it." She gave me a judging glance, then pushed passed me to the barista.
"I'll have a small tea. The light kind. Nothing in it," she jerks a finger to me, "he's paying."

We sat down and I treated the intimate table by a window like it was a smaller version of my desk.
"Danielle, I've asked you here – "
" – You know, you used to call me 'Miss Gray.'" I was startled by her interruption, but even more so because she was right. I looked at her for a bit, then she continued, "Oh, no! It's interesting. I'm just pointing it out. Go on. You asked me here...?" I stared at her for a bit and then gathered myself.
"I've asked you here because I'm truly concerned about you. You've forced me to take this outside of the workplace. While I am fairly passionate about my job," as I said this, she rolled her eyes. I gave her an immediate look of disapproval, then continued on, "if the course of action is to upset the status quo of professionalism to talk some sense into you, then as your superior, I must take that course to insure stability amongst the ranks."
Her arms had been crossed and she looked at me as though she might not have comprehended everything I had just said. She uncrossed her arms and leaned forward on the table between us. She looked at me directly, and without a hint of hesitation or insincerity in her voice, she simply said:
"I am taking off that Monday."
"Miss Gray! This is outrageous! You can't be serious in trying to convince me that in nine days, you are going to die."
"Hmm. You're keeping count."
"Indeed, I am. Perhaps as a measure to understand your unusual practices. Why can't you just confess as to what it is you may want to do on that day? Is there some event or personal holiday I'm not aware of?"
"No."
"Are you going somewhere?"
"No."
"Did you plan an engagement of some sort and do not wish to go back on your promises?"
"No."
"Are you part of some cult that eats pills and hallucinates about aliens?"
"No."
"Danielle, I really and honesty do not understand."
"It's simple."
"No it isn't!"
"You know you're making it more difficult than it really is."
"How can you know that you are going to die?"
"I have a feeling."
"You have a feeling," I more said than asked her.
"Yeah. It's like a gut feeling. You know, almost like instinct."
"So your instinct is telling you that you're going to die in nine days?"
"There abouts, yes."
"You are either telling the unbelievable truth, or Tim was right about you."
"Well that's quite unprofessional of you. Naming names. What did he say? That I was 'batshit' crazy?"
"Actually, verbatim, yes."
"And that I told Chester Williams that his uncle was going to die?" I shifted back in my seat. I'm sure I was noticeably uncomfortable. "Rumor's true. I did tell Chester that."
I looked at her for a while. She was extremely nonchalant; leaning there, on the table, her head propped up on her hands like a grade-schooler listening to a halfhearted reading of a fairytale; she neither seemed bothered nor amused at what she was saying. She reached for her tea, took a sip, placed it back on the table, and then got up.
"I'm taking the Monday off." And with that, she walked away.

Eight days left. I had a difficult time sleeping the night before. It was Sunday, and while I usually stayed home and relaxed, I found myself wandering around the neighborhood, wondering.
Seven days left. I was ten minutes late to work because I had left my coffee cup on the top of my car when I pulled out of the driveway. When I made the brief turn rolling back into the street, the mug slid down the roof and across the windshield, spilling coffee on my hood, and then rolled off, shattering on the street.
Six days. When I had gotten to work, I realized that I had forgotten to put on a tie. On the way home I wasn't paying attention and mounted the right hand curb, taking out two parking meters and a no-parking sign. I took my car to the shop to get fixed and took the bus home.
Five. I got up early and rode the bus to work. For the past two days at work I had been avoiding seeing Danielle in passing, but today I accidentally caught her in the elevator going up to the office after lunch. We didn't say much, but she made a comment about my hair not being combed. I went to the bathroom when we reached our floor, and also realized I hadn't shave either.
Four. I forgot to set my alarm the night before and overslept. I was five hours late to work.
Three. I made sure I got up early. I combed my hair, shaved, wore a tie, and held on tight to my coffee. I got to work early before anyone else. I settled into my office and began some paper work. I went to the copy room, and, thinking I was still alone, walked in without much hesitation. I was startled to find Chester Williams and Judith Henderson kissing passionately, Judith sitting on top of the copier that I needed to use. Needless to say, expletives were yelled, and I walked out embarrassed, leaving the two of them to their own devices. Each came in to my office later to apologize. I waved them off, but the rest of day, when I needed any copies made, I made Tim do it for me.
Two days. It was the weekend. As per usual, it's two days I have all to myself. Despite that fact, I picked up the phone as soon as I got up from a restless sleep and dialed Danielle's number. It rang once, and I slammed it down on the hook. I repeated this about four times throughout the day. I went to the corner store and bought vodka and orange juice to help me sleep.
One. I woke up hungover. There was vomit on my only clean suit I had out for the next work day. I laid in bed for another three hours before I got up. I didn't hesitate to call Danielle when I had the ability to see straight. She answered almost immediately.
"Finally. Caught it right when it rang. Now you can't hang up."
"Danielle..."
"Jesus, Michael, you sound like shit."
"Don't...don't curse. I don't like it."
"I'm sorry. But you do."
"Danielle. Please don't die."
"Michael, are you alright?"
"No, I'm hungover."
"Did you go out drinking?"
"No, I stayed in and drank."
"By yourself?"
I didn't respond.
"Michael, I'm coming over," she said, and then she hung up on me. I threw the phone somewhere behind me. Getting up was difficult, but I managed, and then headed into the kitchen to make coffee and take aspirin.

Danielle arrived at my place not long after. She found me sitting in a chair with a cold mug of coffee in my hand and my face down on the kitchen table. I was aware of her presence with a splash of cold water on my head .
"You really ought to lock your front door. Anyone could walk in."
"Please don't die," I said with my head to one side, still on the table, soaking wet.
"I'm not going to die yet." She helped me out of the chair.
"Danielle, I don't want you to die at all."
"Well that's just too bad now, isn't it?"
She helped me onto the couch in the living room and then went back into the kitchen.
"I'm making you coffee, the kind you made smells awful."
"It's decaf."
"Yeah, see, that's why you're still drunk."
She made a few cups for me and I slowly came about.
"Danielle, stay here. Stay the night."
"Excuse me?"
"I just want to make sure you'll be okay. I just want you to be safe."
"Michael, there isn't a thing you can do about it. I will die tomorrow and it's completely out of your hands."
"I still haven't given you the day off."
"If you can't tell, I don't really care."
Despite what she may have felt, she actually stayed. Perhaps just to humor me, but I didn't care. I made up the couch for her to sleep on, making sure she didn't go into my room. Even though I should have, I didn't sleep. I looked out the windows and drank coffee through to the evening. At around 11:50PM, I started staring at the clock. The second-hand seemed to be waving goodbye with each revolution. I winced a bit when all three hands came together, pointing straight up to the twelve. When I looked to Danielle, who was fast asleep and very much alive, I heaved a cautious sigh of relief and sat in a chair by her side.
At about five in the morning, Danielle poked me awake. I wiped the drool from my face, feeling happier than I had in days.
"See, you're alive," I said with a smile.
"So far," she replied, not a hint of fear in her voice. She began to collect her things.
"Wait, where are you going?"
"I'm going home."
"No, you're staying."
"What? Michael, you can't hold me prisoner in your house."
"I'm sorry, but I'm really going to have to do just that."
"You're out of your mind," she said as she went for the door. I ran and beat her to it. I barred myself across, not permitting her. She looked at me with sore eyes.
"Michael, you're really sweet, but I can't stay here." She leaned in and kissed me on the cheek. I relinquished my hands from the door. She pushed passed me, turned the handle, and walked out. I stood there for a moment, then went out after her.
As I stepped out in the morning light, the dew of my front lawn wetting the soles of my feet, I looked up and down the street, only to find that Danielle wasn't anywhere to be seen. There was no car, not even the sound of one leaving my neighborhood. I heard birds twittering and a dog barking far in the distance. I didn't want to go back into the house. I wasn't sure if I could, and if I did, I'd be afraid of what I might find. I decided to take the day off. I'd make my own written notarization later.