My name is Charon. Most people think it's Karen. I don't correct them. That's what my birth certificate says, after all. But I've known since I was eighteen that Charon is my real name. And, like being a Karen, I'm not the only one. It's more a title, really, than a name. In a world of eight billion people, there have to be many Charons.

You see, we ferry people across the river Styx from the Land of the Living to the Underworld. Well, 'ferry' is really a misnomer. These days, most of us drive. Yes, even the Underworld has modernized. No more flat-bottomed boats poled over across the water at an agonizingly slow pace. No, now we have roads and bridges and up-to-date ferries for vehicles, so we can get the job done quickly and efficiently.

My ride happens to be a 2004 Chrysler Crossfire. She's old, but she's pretty, and she's fast. With ashtrays not being a feature for cars anymore, it's getting harder to find a car with a built-in coin receptacle that quickly morphs into what's needed to accept the ferryman's coin. If I'd had a Mustang or Charger, I'd have had to modify something, but the Crossfire, a sweet two-seater sports car made between the years of 2004 and 2008, came with the perfect coin holder for the obolos, the denomination of coin the dead give me for my efforts. It's worth about twenty bucks these days, which isn't much for the ride, but I don't take modern money. The car magically changes the coins into twenty-dollar bills, so I get paid on the spot. And it's all under the table, so I don't have to report the income to the IRS. Can't beat that!

The recently deceased must have an ancient obolos to be taken across the river. That's the one hard and fast rule. And, the only surefire way of getting an obolos is to be dead and have funeral rites. At some point during those rites—and cremation counts as rites, which is a whole 'nother story—an obolos appears in your possession, often in your mouth, but these days, it is just as apt to pop into existence in your hand, pocket, or sock. There are other, more nefarious and devious ways of getting them, but I try not to think about it.

So, if you haven't figured out, this isn't my full-time job. It doesn't pay enough to be. I work it when I can, picking up those in need as I go about my day, kinda like the Uber of Death. Like I said, it doesn't pay much, but it is fulfilling work. Getting souls where they need to go is important; you do not want to contemplate having a pile-up of lost souls walking around in the Land of the Living.

Now, as for what I do in my everyday job, you're not going to believe it. I'm a life coach. No, seriously, I am. And I do very well with high-end clients. What I like most about it is that I can do the job on the go. So, I can combine these two professions... helping some people live their lives and helping others find their place once dead. I'm just thankful that the Underworld has good cell reception and that the dead don't say much. They don't say anything at all, in fact, and they keep secrets very well. So, I can talk to my coach clients as I ferry souls around all day. And I do.

Right now, I'm in a rare lull between clients and the dead. I dropped off my passenger and ended the call with my last client of the day a few minutes ago. Now, it's just a matter of heading home to change for the evening's grand reopening of the city's main library. It has been closed for over a year for much-needed renovations. A dedicated patron of the library had left the city a substantial amount of money earmarked for the maintenance and upkeep of the library system when they died. The library board had jumped on the opportunity to make repairs to the building, expand the space, and add an outdoor reading space to the establishment. Tonight, we will see it in all its newfound glory.

I'm excited about the evening, mostly because my best friend, Jane, who is the head librarian, is excited about the event. She's been working hard on it and even hand-wrote the important invitations in her beautiful, loopy handwriting.

My phone rings, and I check the pop-up screen of my aftermarket radio to see who is calling. Seeing that it is Jane, I immediately tap to accept the call. "Girlfriend! I'm heading home to change right now," I explain. "Everything alright?"

"Charlie ate my lipstick!" Jane shouts. Charlie is Jane's BDD—Big Dumb Dog.

I scowl. "What?"

"Ate my lipstick!" she repeats. "I was trying to put it on, but clumsy me dropped it, and he dove for it. I managed to get the case back before he swallowed it, but the lipstick is ruined. Help!"

I chuckle. Only Jane could have a crisis like this. "Okay, let me swing by Ulta on the way home and pick up what you need. What's the brand and color?"

"It's the Mac Chili's Crew lipstick. Thanks, Karen. I owe you."

"I'm getting off the freeway now. Should be there in about twenty minutes."

"You're a lifesaver. I swear I have the most annoying dog ever."

"You love that damned dog, and you know it. He loves you, too."

"Truth. Okay, I need to finish up my hair. See you in a few."

I head straight for the lipstick in question, working hard to avoid shopping for myself. I didn't have the time. I still needed to get ready, but, as a guest, I could be fashionably late. Jane needed to be there early to greet the money and popular people.

I manage to get in and out with only the lipstick, a near miracle for me. I ignore the skull on my hood that tells me when someone is waiting to be picked up when I travel by the local cemetery on the way to Jane's; several other Charons were out and about I saw. I didn't have to be on call twenty-four/seven.

I cringe when I hear Charlie go crazy when I ring the doorbell. "Come on in! I'm upstairs!" Jane says through the doorbell.

I open the door slowly, trying not to let Charlie out as he crowds the door. He and I get along pretty well. He's a Great Dane, so he's huge, but for whatever reasons, he's kinda stupid. He'd actually been Jane's husband's dog before Bill died of cancer two years ago. Jane is finally starting to come out of her shell; her excitement about tonight is proof of that. She even had a date for the evening! A nice man by the name of Mark.

Charlie follows me up the stairs as I head for the main suite's bathroom, where I knew I'd find Jane. She is putting the final touches on her hair.

"Here," I thrust the bag at her, "don't drop this one!"

She grabs it and fishes out the lipstick, struggling to unbox it. She's so nervous she's shaking. "Senator Humphries is supposed to be there tonight," she says. "We need this to go well."

I grab her hands to make her pause. "Everything's going to be amazing, Jane. You all have worked so hard and have planned every detail."

She nods. "Yeah, you're right."

"Take a deep breath," I suggest, and inhale so she will, too. We exhale together. I direct her to take a few more until the shaking subsides a little. "Cool. Now, finish getting ready. I'll take Charlie out, then crate him before I leave. You head out."

She nods and turns back to the mirror, focusing on the red lipstick. I race downstairs and grab Charlie's leash. He does his business in the yard quickly, and I pick it up in the doggie bag, disposing of it in the garage as Jane jumps into Mark's SUV and waves goodbye. I get the dog settled, then lock up as I leave.

~💀~

If I have to be honest, I hate parties like this. I can't stand shmoozing. But we do what we must, and I'm always on the lookout for more coaching clients, especially those who can afford me. Still, as parties go, this one wasn't bad; the food was amazing, the champagne was free, and the string quartet playing in the new outdoor reading area was lovely. Still, my social battery was draining, so I took myself to the ladies' room for a reprieve.

The door opens as I wash my hands, and the newest librarian, Emily, walks in. I didn't know her well, but I smile to be nice and say hello. She stops, clearly wanting to say something to me, but is hesitant. She was a little weird that way.

She was a little weird in a lot of ways, actually. Thematically, she dressed in vintage 1950s, always wearing at least one black accent. Think goth meets Hollywood starlet. Honestly, she looked more the part of a Charon than I did. I reapply my lipstick, waiting for her to say something.

"I know who you are."

Well, that was not the phrase I expected from her. My brow creases. "What do you mean?" I say before blotting my lips on tissue to remove some of the excess.

"Charon," she continues, adding just enough of the classic pronunciation that I know she's not saying Karen. "I know you're a Charon."

My skin gets goosebumps. I've never been identified before. I don't quite know what to do. It's not forbidden for people to know who we are, but we usually keep it a secret for professional purposes.

She takes my hesitation as agreement and steps toward me. "I need a favor."

I arch an eyebrow. "You need a favor from a ferryman?"

She scootches closer yet and lowers her voice. "I need a ride."

"You need a ride," I repeat. "To where? Is your car broken down?"

"No, I need a ride to the Underworld. I can pay you." She opens her purse and shows me the small pile of obolos in it.

My insides flip-flop. No one living should have an obolos, much less a collection of them. The door to the ladies' room opens, and two of the patrons walk in, giggling about the Senator's bad toupe.

I grab Emily's wrist and pull her aside, away from the chatty women. "Where did you get those?" I hiss.

She stiffens. "Nevermind. It's enough that I have them. Now, are you going to give me a ride or not?"

~

Author's Discussion: Of course, we know Charon won't be able to resist giving Emily a ride, but where do you think Emily got all those death coins from?