Charon had always been my favorite dog. He’d been a big, gentle, goofy mastiff, and I still missed him 50 years later.

He knew better than to jump onto the bed.

“Get off, Charon,” I said weakly.

“It’s time, Bill. Time to go,” Charon replied.

I looked at him. “I’m ready.”

“There’s a fee to cross the river. Do you have it?”

I looked around the hospice room as best I could. I no longer had anything of value, except for my memories, beliefs, and dreams so I searched those.

Peace and strife, laughter and heartache, learning and stupidity, privation and excess, giving and taking. The life that we acknowledge when we take our first breath is a gift, given with no expectation or possibility of repayment. That first breath is our first act as an independent being: we take. This was my last opportunity to give.

I gathered the remnants of my first breath. I no longer needed it. Someone new could make good use of it.

“I have it. Let’s go, Charon.”

He barked and led me toward the river, chasing frogs as he went.