[ WP ] Everyone dies on their birthday , but no one knows at which age it will occur .

`` I'm going to be in a bit late today, Boss.'' 
 
 Starting a conversation in that manner with someone that can fire you is rarely a good thing, even with the most understanding of employers. He's not one of them. 
 
 `` I count on my workers to be here on time,'' comes a voice from the other side of the line, his displeasure evident. Judging. 
 
 I should care. I do n't. How could I, on today of all times? 
 
 `` Sorry Boss. You know those extra shifts I had to pull because of Rick? I could n't prep for my Nextday.'' Normally I would n't dare raising my voice, but I've done it now. I still do n't care. I consider it a blessing if I live to care about it. `` Ca n't put it off any longer.'' There's emphasis on the first word: *can't*. It's impolite to say any more. No one talks about it unless they have to. 
 
 H got access to all of my personal info. He could look it up. Verify I'm not coming up with some kind of excuse. I do n't think he does. 
 
 Even that hardass knows enough not to question someone claiming their Nextday. No one would do that. The pregnant pause he gives me is enough to convince me he's feeling some small sense of mortification that he's worked one of his best guys to the point he could n't even properly prepare until the last possible moment. 
 
 `` Take all the time you need.'' And with that, the phone clicks, and I toss it to the side. *Imagine that. The bastard has a heart after all. * 
 
 With the simple stuff taken care of, I have time to let my mind wander, and I ca n't help but think about how superstitious we all are. I've heard politicians always have two speeches ready on election day. Eisenhower had two ready D-Day. Nixon had two for Apollo 11. Superstition, yes, but also a sound hedge in case the worst happens. 
 
 We all have our own plans for the day after our birthday. A night of celebration, already planned. Just eighteen hours away. An eternity. Now it's time for the hardest part of them all. Scrolling through my contacts on my phone, I dialed a familiar, hated number and held the device to my ear. 
 
 `` Davidson's funeral home, this is Mr. Davidson. How can I help you?'' 
 
 I hate this part. These people *want* your Nextday to go badly. 
 
 `` Hello, Mr. Davidson. This is Jeremy Jones. I apologize for the last second notice, but I'd like to renew my funeral plans for this year. Tomorrow is my Nextday. Either I will call at midnight, or you can come take my body to the morgue at your convenience.'' 
 
 EDIT: Spelling
