“Come with me,” Death said gently to the boy. “It’s time to go home to heaven.”

“No,” the boy replied. “I’m not going. You’re a stranger and I am not supposed to go with strangers.”

They couldn’t have been a more odd couple. Death stood more than seven feet tall. He was dressed in a long black robe with a skull visible under the hood and one skeletal hand poking out of a sleeve, gripping a scythe. He wasn’t trying to be sinister, he was simply pressed for time and hadn’t altered his appearance from the previous job.

Timmy stood just under five feet, was dressed in a yellow and black over gray Pirate’s baseball uniform and carried a bat in one hand and a ball in a glove on the other. He wore a stubborn look on his face and reiterated, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Death’s Iphone chimed the funeral march and he answered, “Hello?”

He listened for a moment, then hung up.

“OK, kid, you win.” Death said. “Dispatch says you have 74 more years. Sorry for the mixup.”

Seconds later, Timmy awakened on his own bed.