[ WP ] You die in a tragic accident . While sitting on a bench in purgatory , Mr/Mrs.Death approaches you and says , `` Pick a game , any game , and if you are the victor , I 'll send you back to the day before the accident . ''

_'' Yeah, so sometimes I give second-chances. Do-over, you know? So how about we play a game and you win, I'll take you back to yesterday. `` _ 
 
 I was bored and did n't really believe him. A big puffy zit protruded from the stubble on his chin. He was wearing a gray heather t-shirt and charcoal jeans, his hair slicked back out of his face, and mirrored sunglasses rested lightly on his nose. He seemed a little familiar. I wondered if he'd been on the bus. 
 
 He seemed close to my age, but somehow I felt infinitely older and so much more tired. 
 
 I suggested Rock-Paper-Scissors; it seemed the fastest way to get rid of him. He laughed. I remember the laughing. 
 
 It was the kind of sound that made a person's skin crawl, but I was out of my skin. My skin was getting cold, dozens of feet under the ice with the rest of those people on that bus. 
 
 He pushed up those fancy shades, and there were two cold, gray little flames where his eyeballs should have been. And suddenly, I believed. 
 
 -- -- - 
 
 `` Honey, I had the strangest dream, that the bus crashed over a bridge and I was in Limbo. There was something about Death wanting to play Rock Paper Scissors. Yeah, I know, the brain does crazy things. I know, it's just anxiety about the big trip ahead.'' 
 
 I chattered away with my phone in the crook of my neck as I moved around the apartment. Still had some packing to finish. `` Anyway, I want to get some stuff done today. I'll see you tomorrow night, you'll be there to pick me up, right? Great. Love ya.'' 
 
 I spent the rest of the day wrapping things up, and could n't shake some odd sense of anxiety, of urgency. I took care of business I'd put off for months, I called friends I had n't seen in years. 
 
 That night, I slept like a rock, and woke with my alarm, a few hours earlier than usual. 
 
 I hauled my duffel to the bus stop and waited. I could n't shake the spine-crawling feeling of déjà vu. Usually, I tell someone about a dream, it fades away, and I forget almost everything by the next day. But today, it seemed every little thing reminded me of it. 
 
 The bus pulled up to the stop, an all-too familiar squeal of overstressed brakes. The brakes that would kill me, and everyone else, when the driver -- I remembered the mole on his cheek, the minty huff of his breath -- lost control on the bridge. 
 
 The doors stood open, and I backed up. `` You comin, Sugar?'' I shook my head. The bus left without me. 
 
 I went to a diner and ordered a coffee. I slid into a booth and scooted closer to the wall, my duffel taking up the padded pleather bench next to me. I wrapped my hands around the mug for its warmth, I was shaking too much to risk a sip. 
 
 Some punk kid, hair slicked back, wearing sunglasses, slid into the side opposite me. He said nothing, just grinned and gave me a thumbs up. I felt the corners of my mouth move. He did n't laugh, and he did n't move those sunglasses. I was grateful for both, but at the same time, wondered if it was really him. 
 
 My half-smile turned to a grimace. I should have tried to save the others, but the thought did n't cross my mind until just now. I have no clue how I could have gotten everyone off the bus without seeming like a lunatic, but I should have tried. 
 
 I stared at my coffee, feeling numb. From the corner of my vision, I saw him get up. He leaned over and rested a hand on my shoulder. The fingers squeezed, gently. Encouragement. 
 
 He said nothing, and left. 

