Mrs. Brausch was ready to die. She stood over a tall cliff edge — easily one of the most painful methods one could consider for ending a long and unfortunate life — but also the method most accessible to those of limited means.

Mrs. Brausch was a remarkably sharp thistle of a woman. Anyone who had ever truly brought any value into her life had long since passed on, leaving her as cold and alone as solid stone. As each year passed, the gaping void within her, where meaning and significance was intended to take root, grew wider and darker, swallowing up all of her remaining fortitude for living.

What remained was a depraved husk of an old woman. She was all wrinkles and lines and aches and ailments. And she was ready to die.

As her foot took a tentative shuffle towards the cliff edge, Mrs. Brausch closed her eyes and held her head high. Then, with a final deliberate sigh, she thrust her foot out into the open air. And it stopped.

“You’re not going anywhere, Opal Brausch,” a tiny lilting voice called out.