Would You Die Already?

The first time the man died, James was in the middle of proving a point. He preferred to do this standing, as though posture alone added credibility. He pointed at the thermostat like it had personally offended him. “It’s not complicated. If you set it to seventy-two, it will feel like seventy-two. That’s the purpose of numbers in this context. They do not lie unlike you!”

“James—” Christine started, her voice soft, careful.

“No, this is where people get confused,” he continued, louder, stepping neatly over her attempt. “They think they’re hot, so they adjust emotionally. That’s not how systems work.”

Seraphina didn’t look up from her phone. “Mom’s hot. That’s all that is happening; no one is attacking your intelligence.”

“She’s not hot,” James said immediately. “She’s misinterpreting things.”

Christine sat very still with her thin nightgown hanging from her. It was mid-December. “I am hot,” she said, quietly.

“You feel hot. That’s different.”

Seraphina set her phone down with deliberate care. “Do you hear yourself?”

James ignored her. “If we start adjusting temperature based on feelings, we lose control of the environment. Next thing you know, we’re living in chaos and too cold.”

“Dad,” Seraphina said, finally looking up, “it’s a thermostat, not a moral failing.”

“Everything is a system,” James snapped. “People just refuse to respect structure.”

Christine tried again. “Could we maybe—”

“No! Because then we’re rewarding falsehoods and lies,” he said, cutting her off cleanly. “And I will not live—”

He stopped. James stopped not because he was finished. He stopped because something in the yard shifted.

“...Unbelievable,” he said.

Seraphina leaned sideways in her chair to look past his large frame. Their neighbor, Allen, lay face down in the grass. Still. Too still. Deathly still. There was a pause.

“Oh,” Seraphina said.

“No,” James replied immediately. “No. Absolutely not.”

Christine pushed her chair back, “James, I think—”

“I just cleaned that window,” he said. He did not clean that window. He never adds anything to the household but rage and stress. Seraphina, however, had cleaned it that morning, but could not at all understand what point he was trying to make. She needed to find it quickly or risk his wrath being cast onto her.

Seraphina stared at him. “I’m sorry— what?”

Christine was already moving toward the back door. “He might need help.”

“He’s in my sightline,” James said.

“Dad—”

“I am not getting involved,” James said. Cutting and final. “The last time turned into a mess and paperwork. No!”

Christine opened the door. “That was three years ago.”

“Exactly,” James said. “Repeat offender.”

She stepped outside. James followed her onto the patio after a beat, irritation tightening his jaw, with Seraphina trailing behind in her rightful place. Christine crossed the yard and knelt beside Allen, calling his name gently. When he didn’t respond, she reached for his neck. Her expression shifted— small, but unmistakable.

“He’s not breathing,” she said.

James closed his eyes briefly, not in grief but in calculation. “Unbelievable.”

“He’s dead?” Seraphina asked.

“He’s poorly scheduled,” James corrected.

Sirens became the next problem. James said so immediately, pacing the back patio as they grew louder. “They didn’t need to turn those on. It’s performative. Everyone already knows something happened.”

“They’re coming to help,” Seraphina said.

“They’re coming to document,” James corrected. “Once they start things get complicated.”

Christine remained beside Allen, quiet now, her hand hovering as though unsure whether to touch him again. It would be too great a risk. The sirens closed in. James exhaled.

“Unbelievable.”

And then Allen coughed.

It was a small, wet sound. Decidedly alive.

Seraphina froze.

Christine jerked back. “Allen?”

Allen shifted onto his side, blinking up at her. “I tried to lie down before—” he said weakly.

“You stopped breathing,” Seraphina said.

“That seems excessive,” Allen replied dryly.

James nodded once. “I knew it!”

“You did not know that. What are you talking about?” Seraphina said.

“I said we didn’t have confirmation.”

“You declared it a scheduling issue. So, death got it wrong?” She asked, pushing. Perhaps too much, but officers were coming.

“Which it was,” James said, ignoring her point.

The cruiser turned onto West Elm. James stiffened. “No,” he said under his breath.

“This,” he said, gesturing at Allen, who was attempting to sit up. “A body that isn’t a body. That raises questions. I told you not to get involved again!”

“He needed help,” she said.

“They were coming for a problem that no longer exists,” James snapped back.

The officer stepped out of his vehicle, called in over his crackling radio, and said, “Evening.”

“It’s resolved,” James said immediately. “False alarm.”

“We received a report of an unresponsive male.”

“Which is no longer accurate,” James said, cutting off Allen, who was trying to explain the situation he found himself in.

Allen tried to stand and failed slightly. The officer’s eyes tracked the movement.

“Sir, I’m going to need to—”

“That won’t be necessary,” James said.

“Dad,” Seraphina murmured.

“I’ve got it,” he insisted.

The officer stepped closer. James shifted— just slightly— blocking, redirecting, controlling. The officer's tone cooled. “Sir. Move.”

James stepped back, not willingly but strategically. “Fine,” he said. “But let’s be efficient.”

Seraphina leaned toward him. “You’re making this harder.”

“I contained it,” he insisted.

“You tried to body-block a—.”

“I redirected, more efficient that way, these Officers don’t know their asses from their elbows!” James was raising his voice now. Escalating, always escalating. Another cruiser and an ambulance pulled up.

“Of course you did,” she muttered, rolling her eyes.

The next day, Christine chose a casserole— something soft, something kind, something neutral enough to hand to a man who had died in your yard less than twenty-four hours earlier. She crossed the grass, knocked, and Allen opened the door, alive again.

“Oh,” he said. “Christine.”

“I brought you something,” she said gently. “After yesterday—”

“That’s very nice,” he said.

He collapsed without warning. Just— gone.

Christine moved faster this time. She set the casserole down, dropped to her knees, and checked his pulse. Nothing. “Allen,” she said again, louder now. Nothing. She reached for her phone.

James noticed the delay first. “It should not take this long to drop a casserole off. Especially, when you’re dropping it directly to your left.” He was already convincing himself of some new nonsense to rage about.

“Maybe she’s talking—” Seraphina attempted to say, but was immediately cut off. Again.

“No,” James replied. “She wouldn’t. I explicitly told her no longer than 7 minutes.”

He went to his neighbor’s door and, without knocking, let himself in. “Christine—”

He stopped. Christine sat on the couch, hands in her lap. The casserole dish rested on the coffee table. Allen lay beside her, unmistakably dead.

“...No,” James said.

“There’s a pulse but it’s very faint,” Christine replied quietly. Nervously. “I already called 911.”

James stepped inside, slow, deliberate. “This doesn't make sense.”

“I know,” she said.

He looked at Allen, then at Christine, then back again. Something shifted— not irritation this time, but suspicion. “What happened?” he asked.

It was Seraphina who explained it later, calm and measured at the kitchen table. “He has POTS. Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome. His blood pressure drops. He passes out. It can look like—”

“Death,” James finished.

“Yes, it can look like that,” she confirmed.

James leaned back, satisfied, “I said that.”

“No, you didn’t”

“I implied it,” James insisted.

“You said he was poorly scheduled.”

“That’s not incorrect.”

Christine stared at her plate. Seraphina sighed. “He’s not dying, Dad. He’s sick.”

“Then he should manage it better,” James said.

“You think people choose this?” she asked.

“I think people choose preparedness,” he replied.

Christine’s voice came out small. “James…”

He waved it off. “This has happened multiple times now!”

“Yes,” Seraphina said. “To him.”

It continued like this well into the early morning hours. Seraphina and Christine were desperate for sleep. Seraphina had work in two hours, but once he ‘took off’ there was no stopping his tirades. They were at his mercy until he finally ran out of steam.

Allen collapsed again. This time, by the fence while James was on his riding mower. He dropped mid-hymn at church. He folded quietly into the grass again during dinner, as though the yard itself had a preference. Each time, Christine moved faster. Each time, Seraphina steadied the situation. And each time, James observed and criticized, but did nothing of use.

By the eleventh incident, James didn’t even stand anymore.

He looked out the front window, closed his eyes, and said, “...No.”

Seraphine rose from the table. Christine followed her, phone in hand. At the door, Seraphina paused and looked back at her dad. “You know what the Bible actually says about loving your neighbor?”

“I know what it says about order,” James replied.

“Of course you do,” she said.

They stepped outside. Allen groaned, rolled, slowly sat up. Alive again.

James exhaled, long and tired, “... Unbelievable.”

That night, everything was quiet. No sirens. No movement. No interruptions. James sat in his chair, finally still, the house settled around him in a way that felt earned.

From somewhere outside came a soft, unmistakable thud.

James did not move. He did not look. After a moment, he said, “I’m not checking.”

From the hallway, Seraphina’s voice answered, “I am.”

She was already moving.

A pause.

Then, “Yeah, it’s him.”

Another pause.

“He’s breathing.”

James leaned back, closed his eyes, and nodded once.

“Poorly scheduled,” he murmured.

That should have been the end of it.

It wasn’t.

The following Sunday, James insisted on hosting lunch. This, in itself, was unusual. James did not host. Hosting implied variables—timing issues, reliance on others, the possibility that something might not proceed according to his exacting plans. But after what he referred to repeatedly as “a week of unnecessary disruptions,” he had decided the household would benefit from structure.

“Everyone will be seated at 1:00,” he said that morning, standing at the counter like a man addressing a small, underperforming board. “Not 1:05. Not when it’s ready. 1:00.”

Christine nodded faintly from the sink. Seraphina sipped her coffee and asked, without looking up, “Do we have guests?”

“No,” James said. “We have standards.”

By 12:58, James was already seated. By 12:59, he was checking the clock. At exactly 1:00 o’clock, he looked up and said, “What is taking so long?”

“We’re working on it. Unless you would like to come help,” Seraphina replied.

“I was clear,” James said.

Christine moved carefully between the counter and the table, placing dishes down one by one as though avoiding sudden movement might preserve something fragile in the air.

At 1:03, James cleared his throat. “We’re beginning.”

Seraphina didn’t move. “Mom’s not sitting yet.”

“She had the same instructions,” he said.

Christine hurried into her chair.

James nodded once, satisfied. “Now we can proceed.”

There was a knock at the door.

James went still. Not dramatically. Not outwardly. Just a small, contained stillness.

“No,” he said.

Seraphina exhaled through her nose. “It’s a door.”

“It’s a disruption,” James corrected.

The knock came again.

Christine half-rose. “I’ll—”

“No,” James said, fiercer now. “We are in the middle of a scheduled event.”

“It might be important,” she said.

“It is not more important than this,” he replied, gesturing to the table as though it carried moral weight.

The knock came a third time.

Then, from the other side of the door, “Christine?”

Allen.

Christine stood. “He might need—”

“He always might need something,” James said. “That’s the problem.”

Seraphina pushed her chair back. “I’ll get it.”

“You will not,” James said immediately.

She was already halfway there.

“Seraphina Angelina Garcia,” he said, using her full name now, sharp and deliberate.

She turned, looked over her shoulder, and said, “At this point, Allen has a better return rate than your empathy.”

She opened the door anyway.

Allen stood on the porch, alive again, though pale and slightly damp, as if he had been returned to himself in a hurry. “Oh,” he said. “Sorry. I didn’t realize—”

“You’re fine,” Seraphina said gently. “What’s going on?”

“I just—” he started.

He swayed. Seraphina stepped forward automatically, reaching for him, but James was already moving, faster this time—not out of concern, but irritation.

“No,” James said, crossing the room with purpose. “Absolutely not. We are not doing this here.”

Allen blinked at him, confused. “I just need—”

“No,” James repeated, holding up a hand as though he could stop the process itself. “You will not collapse on my threshold.”

“Dad,” Seraphina said.

“This is my house, and I make the rules,” James commanded.

Allen swayed again.

Christine moved quickly. “James—”\

“I am setting a clear expectation,” he continued. “If you are going to have an episode, you need to do it in an appropriate location.”

Allen looked at him, genuinely lost. “I don’t— is it rude if I sit down before my body makes the decision for me?”

He dropped.

Right there.

Half in the doorway, half out, a perfect violation of space.

There was a beat.

Then Seraphina said, very quietly, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Christine was already on her knees, checking his pulse. “It’s faint—”

“Of course,” James said. “But he’s obstructing the entrance.”

“Dad,” Seraphina snapped.

“What?” James demanded. “He is physically in the way.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“No,” James said, stepping carefully around Allen’s body. “What’s unbelievable is the consistent refusal to plan.”

Christine pressed her fingers to Allen’s neck. “He’s still breathing.”

Seraphina crouched beside her. “Okay. Okay. Let’s just—”

“We are not moving him into the house,” James said.

Both women looked up at him.

“James,” Christine said slowly, “we can’t leave him in the doorway.”

“He placed himself there,” James replied.

“He collapsed,” Seraphina said. “You keep quoting order like it’s scripture, but none of it sounds familiar.”

“Into a high-traffic area,” James added, bypassing Seraphina again.

Seraphina stared at him. “You think this is intentional?”

“I think patterns emerge,” he said.

Christine exhaled shakily. “We need to get him onto the couch.”

“No,” James said.

“James—”

“That introduces liability. This is not my problem!”

Seraphina went very still. “You think helping him is a liability.”

“I think involvement escalates responsibility,” James corrected.

She nodded once, then bent down with Christine and lifted Allen anyway. They maneuvered him onto the couch. He lay there, limp but breathing, the room settling into a brief, uneasy quiet.

Then Allen gasped and sat up abruptly. Promptly slumping back into the cushions.

“—Oh,” he said. “My doctor advised me to avoid sudden movements, stress, and gravity. I’ve been struggling with the last one.”

Christine let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Allen, you’re okay.”

“Yes,” he said, blinking. “I think so. I just—”

He looked around, taking in the table, the food, and the three of them.

“Oh,” he said again. “I interrupted.”

“Yes,” James said.

Seraphina shot him a look.

Allen gave a small, apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize what time it was.”

“It’s 1:12,” James said.

Allen nodded, as though that clarified something. He shifted to stand. Seraphina moved instinctively. “Hey—just wait a second—”

“I’m fine,” he said.

James watched closely.

Evaluating.

Timing.

Allen made it halfway upright.

Then, predictably, he dropped again, this time fully onto the couch.

Seraphina covered her face with one hand. Christine whispered, “Oh, honey…”

James stared for a long moment, unblinking, and then said, “Would you die already?!”

The silence that followed was complete.

Seraphina lowered her hand slowly. Christine froze. Even Allen, mid-unconsciousness, seemed to pause in spirit if not in body.

James exhaled, as though the sentence had been waiting. “I don’t mean permanently,” he added. “I mean consistently.”

Seraphina stared at him, and then—unexpectedly—she laughed. Not polite, not restrained, but sharp and sudden and entirely uncontained. It startled Christine. It startled James. It would have startled Allen, had he been conscious

“You really think that’s the issue?” she said, still laughing.

“It is the issue,” James replied.

“No,” she said, shaking her head, something in her finally giving way. “No, the issue is you.”

“That’s not accurate.”

“You don’t see it, do you?”

“I see it perfectly clearly.”

“You are the problem.”

Christine sat back slowly, watching them both.

Seraphina took a breath and steadied herself. “You know what the Bible actually says about loving your neighbor?”

James sighed. “We’ve been over this.”

“No,” she said quietly. “We haven’t. It doesn’t say ‘as long as it’s convenient.’”

James opened his mouth, then closed it. For once, not because he was finished, but because he had nothing ready to correct.

Behind them, Allen stirred.

Sat up.

Alive again.

“…Sorry,” he said. “If I collapse again, just rotate me. I think circulation is a team effort now.”

Seraphina wiped at her eyes, still smiling. “You’re good.”

James looked at him, then at the table, then back again. There was a pause—measured, careful.

“…Sit,” James said.

All three of them looked at him.

He gestured toward the chair. “You’re already here.”

Allen blinked. “You sure?”

James hesitated—just a flicker—then said, “Just stay upright.”

Seraphina laughed again. Christine smiled, faintly, the relief on her face evident.

Allen nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

James sat back down, adjusted his plate, and looked at the clock.

“1:20,” he said.

A pause.

Then, begrudgingly, he added, “We’ll proceed.”

Allen got up to head over to the chair James appointed him and promptly dropped.

“If I go down again, just assume I’ll be back. I usually am,” Allen managed to slur out the words from his place on the floor.

Seraphina helped him scoot towards the table. James actively and with prejudice ignored them and began eating his lunch. For the first time in her life, Christine was proud of her daughter.

Seraphina passed a plate down to Allen, who remained on the floor, leaning against one of her legs for safekeeping.