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“We’re doing that,” Grayson began, but then the man reached over and closed his hand over Grayson’s, the one that held the cellphone.

Grayson thought he wanted to speak to the operator and released the phone into the man’s possession. But the man stabbed the “End Call” key. Blood smeared across the keypad. He tossed the phone on the counter.

“No,” the man rasped.

“What are you doing?” Grayson cried.

The ambulance and police were still coming, but the operator might have been able to help until they arrived.

“Can’t–can’t trust them. Can’t–can’t trust anyone,” the man told him.

“I agree!” Sam nodded eagerly.

The homeless man licked his lips and glanced down at the bottles of beer in the refrigerator at the end of the aisles. Grayson didn’t blame him. He could use a beer about now. Maybe ten.

“I’m not a big fan of authority either,” Grayson told him, “but you need medical attention and–”

“Not going to make it. I can’t fucking believe it,” the man let out a phelgmy laugh that was filled with bitterness. “Just when I was almost–almost beyond all of this. When a knife couldn’t hurt me.”

The man laughed again, the sound was wetter and thicker than before. He sagged further over the counter. He gave out a choked sound and his legs nearly went out beneath him. Grayson grabbed him just before he went down hard on the ground. The man felt so fragile under Grayson’s hands. Almost as if the blood leaving him had reduced his mass until he was little more than twigs and frayed twine.

“Maybe he should sit down, Grayson?” Sam suggested, looking a little queasy as blood oozed through Grayson’s shirt and over his grimy fingers.

“Yeah. Here. Let’s use this.”

Grayson let go of the man before he took his own stool and lifted it over the counter. He came around the counter as well and, between him and Sam, got the man on the stool. Grayson had to keep hold of the man’s shoulders though to keep him from toppling off.

“Is this better?” Grayson asked the man.

He coughed wetly. “There’s nothing to be done. I don’t think death should be comfortable. It should make you feel it. I want to feel every last, damned bit.”

“You’re not dying. You’re going to be all right,” Grayson insisted.

But he’d seen people dying before, mostly of drug overdoses and all of them had become this grayish color and their eyes hadn’t focused and this man was like them. Sam looked up at him and he saw that Sam thought the man was dying too.

“You’re going to be all right,” Grayson repeated as if his words would somehow change things.

They never had before, even when they were the truth. Why did he think that lies would cause a different outcome?

“The ambulance should be here soon,” Grayson said.

He thought the man murmured “no” but it was drowned out by a fit of coughing. More blood splattered the ground.

Heart slamming against the interior of his chest, Grayson looked out the door towards the dark, wet street.

Where the Hell is the ambulance? She said 10-minutes! It’s nearly been that long!

But he did think he saw something outside through the rain-spattered glass. Was there movement across the street? Was there someone hanging about the mouth of the alleyway that was just opposite the convenience store? On a cold, rainy night not even Sam would stay there. He squinted.

It’s nothing. Just a trick of the light.

A cold chill ran down his spine as he thought that. How many times had he explained away his own gift to people by using that very line? People didn’t want to see the paranormal. Not really. Not when they weren’t separated from it by a television or movie screen.

“Grayson! He’s dying!” Sam shouted.

Grayson’s attention snapped back to the wounded man. He had started to slide off of the seat again, his eyes closing and his breathing becoming shallower. He was on the edge of death. Grayson could almost see his soul clinging with the lightest of touches to his body, about to slide away towards whatever was after.

“Hey! Hey! Stay with us! C’mon, you need to stay awake!”