"Well, now that we're through with the pleasantries, Mr. Daniels, I must ask: Why is it that you want to die?"

Joseph Daniels sighed and slumped down in his seat, the picture of unkemptness. His face looked tired, with large bags underneath his eyes and at least three days' worth of stubble. His hair was a mess, his clothes were disheveled. He seemed to exude an aura of despair.

He surveyed the room he was in, which was quite his opposite: neat, orderly, unremarkable. Blank, white walls, some filing cabinents, three windows looking out on downtown. He was sitting in a plain, wooden chair in front of a plain, wooden desk with merely a fake houseplant and laptop on top.

The woman behind the desk, typing notes on the laptop, was similarly forgettable. She was dressed in a black pantsuit, her dark brown hair in a bun. Her eyes were blue, but otherwise ordinary. She wore little makeup on her plain face. She was as unremarkable as the room, which was how she liked it.

She had introduced herself only as Jane.

Finally, Daniels met her inquisitive gaze and spoke.

"Well...I suppose it boils down to the economy. I've been laid off five times, I can't get a decent job since I didn't go to college...I don't know. I have a wife and three kids, but more and more I think they'd just be better off without me.

Jane noted this all on the laptop, then turned back to Daniels.

"Generally, a family does not do well without a father, Mr. Daniels. Why are you so sure that your death would be a boon?"

"I've still got life insurance from my last job. If I were gone, they'd get some money, be able to get by. Maybe Mary...my wife...could get hitched with one of her old high school boyfriends who are always dropping by. They seem pretty well off."

"Why not just run away? Disappear and start somewhere fresh?"

"The guilt...listen, I didn't want all these questions. I want to die."

Jane nodded.

"Very well. I was only curious. Now, would you like your death painless or..."

"Painless," Daniels blurted out, wincing.

Jane nodded again.

"That is the most popular option. We won't judge you for it. Now, let's see here..."

She looked intently at the laptop.

"It looks like we could arrange your death around...next Thursday."

This startled Daniels.

"You...You're telling me when I'll die?"

Jane laughed.

"Oh dear, no Mr. Daniels. Just giving you a window. We wouldn't want you overly stressed, after alll, and a definite date might make you act...strangely. You won't see it coming, but rest assured: we never miss an appointment."

Daniels relaxed, but not entirely.

"So, is there anything else?" he asked.

"No, I think we have everything we need here. Thank you for your business Mr. Daniels. You are free to leave."

---

Back on the street, Daniels entered a cab.

"1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, Please."

The cab driver turned around.

"We both know you don't live there, Joe."

Daniels laughed, a smile crossed his face.

"Yeah, but it makes for a good code phrase, don't you think?"

They laughed for a few more seconds.

"You know Frank, that was the damn scariest thing I've ever done. I know journalists are supposed to take risks, but...damn..."

Frank put his arm on Daniels' shoulder.

"Don't worry man, the worst of it is over. Once we break this story on the death clinic, we'll all be able sleep easier, eh?"

Daniels nodded.

"Yeah, I suppose you're right."

---

The front page next Wednesday read:

"Journalist killed in car bombing."

The story reported that Joseph Daniels, reporter for The Times, was killed at 8:00 a.m. the previous day when he turned the ignition in his car and set off a bomb hidden inside. At his funeral, fellow Times reporter Frank Weatherby gave a eulogy, and revealed that Daniels had been on the verge of releasing a story on an organization called Planned Homicide, which was supposedly responsible for the recent deaths of local figures.

The story was posted alongside Daniels' obituary, and police immediately looked into the matter. All personel in the building were arrested, though the believed leader of the shadowy business, a woman only known as Jane, was not found.

---

Three months later, an unmarked black van pulled into the driveway of 300 Elm Street, the former residence of the late Joeseph Daniels. The time was 4:00 a.m. A man in a trenchcoat and fedora got out of the van, which then pulled away. The man walked to the door, took out a set of keys, then unlocked the deadbolt and entered the home. He slowly crept through the dark house, stopping in the kitchen, where he removed his hat.

Suddenly, the lights came on.

"Don't move!" yelled Mary, the widow of Daniels. She was in a pink bathrobe, her hair an unruly mess. Her eyes were red from the tears she shed over her husband each night. A gun was held in her quivering hands.

The man had his back to the gun. Slowly, he turned around, his hands raised in surrender.

"Honey...it's me."

Joseph Daniels was back from the dead.

---

He sat on the porch with his wife in his arms, watching his children play on the lawn as the sun set. She had been angry at first, understandably, but her wrath soon passed.

Just then, Daniels' cell rang.

With an apoligetic look at his wife, he answered the call.

"Hello?"

"Joseph Daniels?" asked a female voice on the other end.

"Yes?"

"We never miss an appointment."