“No!” I shouted.
“Relax,” Death said. “This isn’t your time. It’s his time.” Death pointed to a man sitting at a table by the window. The man stood, clutched his chest, groaned then crumpled to the floor.
Death turned to me. “I know what you are thinking. Fleeing to Samara or Baghdad won’t save you. Your appointment with me is set. You cannot change it.” Before walking away, Death put some money on the table. “Enjoy another cup on me.” Then she smiled. “It could be your last one.”