It’s a creepy job, driving shadows, but my kind of work. I can give back, make a difference. Shadows have stuff to do, just like us. If a shadow couldn’t call a death cab how would he ever get from the grave to his old haunts, his special places–the house where he first made love, the little green yard where he had his birthday parties, the broke down chapel where hope burned so hot. Shadows don’t fly, you know. They’re weak, they have very little spirit left, and it’s waning every second. Sure I’ll drive them around. Wouldn’t you?
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Title by: Shaun M.
Story by: Bill Henderson
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This is gorgeous, Bill.