I made my way out of the apartment and down the stairs to the building's exit. The rain had become a torrent, and I paused at the door to pull the cloak hood over my head before stepping out into the tide of humanity trudging through the downpour. I found the sensation of rain on my face pleasant as I studied the buildings lining either side of an asphalt road. Most were single-story boxes no bigger than my apartment; all were decorated in bright swathes of graffiti promoting local gangs. Several of the buildings like mine rose to three stories, silent sentinels of a more prosperous era. After several blocks, I passed a restaurant where people sat at tables consuming food and drink. The hollow feeling in my gut protested, and I decided to join them. Before I could go in, a nearby disturbance caught my attention. People were shouting and running toward a person lying on the pavement. Beside the stricken figure stood a fellow donned in a cloak identical to mine. He waived at me and smiled. His reaction took my breath away, and the inner emptiness gave way to a burst of hope. The dense crowd prevented me from getting closer. I called out just as a ghostly form rose from the body on the pavement, and my acknowledger turned away. He gathered the floating form, then donned his hood. Immediately, they disappeared. I think I wanted to cry; so disappointing was the loss. Possibly, I did. It was impossible to tell in the rain, and I was not certain I possessed the ability to cry like some of the onlookers. Lowering my hood, I wiped the water from my eyes and made my way back to the eatery. A waitress in a cheerful pink apron greeted me and offered to show me to a table. She mumbled about the miserable weather that was somehow hurting business and walked me to a free place in the center of the room. She asked to take my dripping cloak, which I unclasped and began to remove. The room erupted into shouts and laughter. Evidently, one was expected to wear garments beneath a cloak. A package addressed to 'Occupant' was delivered bright and early the next morning. In it were a laptop, a printer, and a cell phone. I logged on as an occupant just for fun, and to my amazement, it worked. The password was, less surprisingly, password. In response, I was presented with a screen full of possibilities. Maybe I was not meant to learn who I was, I thought. Maybe I could invent whom I wanted to be. I selected the name...Gwyn. The surname, Reaper, was added automatically. I liked the name - Gwyn Reaper - it made me feel real. I browsed the other information on the PC and learned more about a communication device embedded beneath the skin of my left wrist. It was called a plaz; and there were other tools available to me. Tools for use in a function I had observed the cloaked man perform. I was a reaper of human souls. Mark Twain said, "The most important two days in your life are the day you are born and the day you find out why." Next, I chose a profession for what would be my public persona. An occupation that would discourage human attachment and give me enough flexibility to manage reapings likely to occur at any time. Moments later, I was Gwyn Reaper, IRA agent with an office address and a phone number embossed on the business cards issuing from the printer. Within an hour, I had a bank account generously loaded with ample funds, an unlimited credit card, a resume that included a degree in finance, and the pink slip for a seven-year-old Chevy. The empty cubbyholes in what was supposed to be my memory remained blank, but that no longer mattered. I had an identity I felt comfortable with, at least the day job part, and a purpose. Mr. Twain would have undoubtedly approved. Just before logging off, my email displayed a message that read: "Gwyn, let's have dinner soon. Elly" News travels fast, I noted and typed SURE then clicked reply. Putting aside the computer I went to the kitchen to make a sandwich. There was a lot to chew on. What would it be like to reap a soul? Where is the portal? Who the hell is Elly?