Before Charon could whip his jet ski around for another pass, however, something changed. More to the point, someone coughed.

His eyes flashed, once, as he scanned the masses. Thousands of souls milled around, as always. Most were losing interest in him just bobbing there—not that there was much else to look at. Had he imagined the sound? Silence, except for the ever-present whispering and quiet lapping, pressed in.

He dangled his toes on either side of the craft and watched as rippling circles spread from his feet. They died before they reached the shore. Still nothing. He absent-mindedly tapped the gas gauge, feigning disinterest with the crowd. Charon didn’t want to get his hopes up. In fact, when it came down to it, he was happy with his stagnant—no, stable!—corner of the underworld.

And then someone coughed again. It was an unpleasant cough, as coughs go. More of a gagging sound. And then he saw her: a small girl on the shore, spitting out what looked like—it couldn’t be—a silver coin. An obolus.