The man waiting in front of you for his coffee evaporates. The last of him asks: Why me? You wait for flecks of his blood to fall but it never comes.

Your neighbor wonders: Where am I going? When his son comes looking for him, you point to the empty set of clothes at your doorstep, then up to the sky where new questions linger:

Can you hear me?

What happened?

Is this it?

You stop looking up after the third day when you feel your wife's hand disappear. She manages to contort what is left of her into cursive:

I'll miss you.

You think about what your body will say when it's your turn, but you're not sure whether anyone would read it.