where the writers are

     There’s little to be done that isn’t already being done to help him, so everybody just keeps doing what they’ve been doing and he just goes right on being crazy. He keeps telling them he knows who’s dying; who’s going to die soon, who’s going to linger, and how they’re all going to go. He tells them this with such certainty that, this time, even those who have known him for years, who have heard his forecasts over and over again since he was just a crazy child, begin to believe him; begin to despair of their fading mortality; to fear that their end is, indeed, near.  

     In the morning, everyone’s almost surprised to be witnessing another sunrise. Everyone feels like they ought to go out there and make the best of it. Those who can, do; the rest of them just stay put, names on a waiting list.