The dead arrive with questions; I answer with gossip and an oar. A scythe to steady the clients — tradition calms a soul better than scripture — coins that weigh a life by who misses it, and a crossing that stretches or shrinks with my mood. Everyone gets ferried eventually, so I keep my own pace and make every trip worth chatting about. The boss calls it slacking; the passengers call it the politest mile in the afterlife. Mind the water — the fish down there are older than both of us.