Sam was having a bad day before he got the letter.

After a long day of struggling through math and engineering classes, he headed to the parking garage, grumbling to himself. Between what he regarded as his abject failure to master differential equations and a quiz in his statics class looming tomorrow afternoon, Sam was tired and annoyed and fed up. It was time to go home and forget the day with some sitcom droning in the background while he tried to understand the life choices he had made that had got him to this point.

Sam glanced up, reading the floor number on the parking garage and headed up to the spot where he had left his car. The old blue Volvo sat there, looking as dejected as Sam felt, but there was nothing for it; the car was the only thing he had to get him back and forth to school.

Tossing his backpack into the passenger seat, Sam slumped into the car and jammed his keys into the ignition. He hoped Jake, his roommate, had remembered to go grocery shopping today. With only one class in the afternoon on Tuesdays and Thursdays, Jake had plenty of time to get his work done and pick up something frozen for dinner before Sam got out of his last class of the day at five thirty. Besides, he owed Sam for the last time he had done his shopping for him.

Sam hit the dial for the radio as he pulled out of his parking space, but flipping through the channels revealed all of them had decided to go to commercial at the same time. Typical, Sam groused as he reached for one of the CD cases he kept in his car. Popping open the case and retrieving the CD for Billy Joel's Turnstiles, Sam carefully slid the disc into the radio as his car rolled down the ramp, turning for the exit.

The disc clicked in the radio before sliding back out. Annoyed, Sam pushed the disc back in before pulling out of the garage and onto the road. The radio only spat the disc out again.

"Really?" Sam questioned, steering with one hand as he pulled the disc out and secured it back in its case. Tossing it onto the floor, he picked up the closest case at hand and groaned when he saw the cover. "Damn you, Jake!"

Jake, a self-proclaimed emo who Sam suspected was only faking, had left his Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge album in the car after their recent weekend trip to watch an away game for their football team. Their team had lost and, to make matters worse, Sam had had to endure My Chemical Romance for the entire drive back to their apartment.

But it was either that or the radio commercials, so Sam slid in the CD.

Ten minutes later, Sam pulled into the parking lot of his apartment complex and parked his Volvo, pulling the CD out of the slot and taking the case with him when he got out of his car. Jake probably hadn't even missed the CD – he only listened to his music on Spotify, but due to Sam's car being too old for Bluetooth, Jake had grumblingly purchased a couple secondhand CDs for road trips, since he refused to listen to Sam's music the entire way. Their other roommates didn't care, either way.

"Your music tastes are those of an old man," Jake had told him insultingly.

"Better than those of an imposter emo," Sam had shot back.

Slinging his heavy backpack over his shoulder, Sam trudged down the sidewalk and scanned his card at the door, letting himself into the foyer of the apartment building. Two flights of stairs and much internal grumbling later, Sam found himself standing before his door, apartment 302, home to him, Jake, Marcus, and Raj.

"Hey," Marcus greeted as Sam trudged in, tossing his backpack on the floor by the couch and placing Jake's CD on the coffee table as the tall athletic guy looked up at him, a video game controller in his dark hands. "How're those differential equations treating you?"

Sam shot him a withering glare. "Shut up."

Marcus laughed and continued playing his game as Sam headed into the kitchen, opening the fridge only to find his own shelf empty. Jake's was, as well. Matter of fact, the fridge was pretty bare in general.

"Where the hell is Jake?"

Marcus shrugged. "Dunno. The game room in the club house?"

"He was supposed to go shopping!" Sam exclaimed. "He owes me, and I have no food left!"

"Chill," Marcus instructed. "Raj ordered a pizza. He didn't feel like shopping. Chip in a couple bucks and you can have some."

Sam closed the fridge and took a handful of chips from the open bag on the counter as Marcus glanced back at him, somehow still managing to stay on the track in his round of Mario Kart. The leaderboard revealed he was in the lead. Typical. "Oh, by the way, you got a letter from the IRS."

"Oh, okay – wait, what? The IRS? What the hell for?"

Marcus paused his game and sat up. "Yeah, I thought that was strange, too. Do you even do your own taxes? I didn't think you made enough at that coffee shop to be taxed."

"I don't," Sam said, glancing wildly around. "Where's the letter?"

Marcus pointed to the table. "I got everyone's mail. It's in that stack somewhere. I didn't look at it too closely."

Sam jumped over to the table, immediately beginning to rummage through the white envelopes there. The names of Raj Acharya, Jake Miller, and Marcus Bronze swam across his vision as he scanned the addresses, until his eyes finally fell on an envelope with Samuel Walker showing through the clear plastic window.

In the upper left corner, part of the return address was obscured, but Sam could clearly see the RS. Confused and thoroughly angry with his bad luck, he yanked the letter out of the pile and examined it more closely.

But there was just one problem. The letter wasn't from the IRS, for the letter preceding the RS was a G.

GRS. A tiny scythe emblem sat next to the name, inked in black.

What the hell is the GRS?

Now curious after the initial scare had worn off, Sam opened the envelope and pulled out the letter, unfolding it. His eyes widened as he began to read.

Dear Samuel Walker,

It appears there is an error with your life. We have no record of your life at all at Grim Reaper Services. You are required to file an annual Life Return with us and we have no record of any such filings. Neither do we have a Death Return on file for you to explain the lack of Life Returns.

As a result of this inconsistency with your records, or lack thereof, we have scheduled a court date for you on October 24 to settle this conflict before our reckoning.

If you miss this court date, your life will be terminated immediately. You have been warned.

Sincerely yours,

The Grim Reaper.

Grim Reaper Services.

Sam read the letter through three times in a row, struggling to understand what was going on. He ran a hand through his brown hair as he furrowed his brow. Marcus, noticing the sudden quiet from behind him, paused his game yet again and twisted around. "Sam?"

Their apartment door slammed open and Raj burst into the apartment, holding two pizza boxes in his hands. "Dinner's here!" he sang out. "Pay up, Sam, if you want any!"

Marcus bounced off the couch, promptly forgetting about Sam's letter, as Raj deposited the boxes on the table. Sam stepped back, still gripping the letter tightly. He had no idea what was going on. None of this made any sense.

As Raj opened the top box, the smell of cheese wafting into the air, and Marcus grabbed some paper plates, Sam carefully folded the letter and took a plate with two pieces of steaming cheese pizza layered on it. Grim Reaper Services? What kind of sick joke is this?

October 24. That was two days from now. But there was no address, no idea which court he would have to go to, no directions at all. He somehow doubted that his local courthouse would have this case on record.

Life Return? Death Return? The Grim Reaper? There is no record of my life? What's that supposed to mean?

And if I don't show up, he'll terminate my life immediately?

"Dig in!" Marcus crowed, neither he nor Raj seeming to notice the bewilderment on Sam's face in their eagerness to eat the hot, delicious pizza.

And in Sam's bewilderment, he didn't notice the shadow outside the window move.