The chart hanging at the foot of her hospital bed reads, Daniela Ramirez. I look down at my clipboard. It reads the same.

She’s only forty-two, according to my chart. Widowed. No kids. Stage-four cancer.

Damn. And here I am—

My cell chimes, notifying me of the time. I’m behind schedule. Again.

I clear my throat of dust and of cobwebs and croak out something like a salutation. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Ramirez.”

She slowly opens her eyes and lifts her tired gaze to meet mine.

“Mrs. Ramirez, I’m here to discuss your insurance claim,” I say.

Her eyes widen, recognizing me as the crank with the clipboard. The bully in the three-piece suit. The Grim Reaper.

She goes pale, as if she’s seen death, and her mouth opens and closes, once, twice, like a fish gulping air. She whispers something, though it’s too faint for me to hear, and her eyelids close.

Some people can’t be saved.

I click my pen and test the ink on the corner of the paper. The one on the clipboard. “I’m going to read your policy aloud,” I say. This is to remind her of her coverage. Or the lack thereof. “Okay, Mrs. Ramirez?”

She doesn’t respond.

“Mrs. Ramirez?”

Nothing.

I shake my head. “Mrs. Ramirez, if you’re able, I need you to confirm that you can hear me.”

My pocket vibrates. Dammit.

I shove my hand into my front pocket, pull out my phone, and look at the caller ID. Double Dammit.

I answer the phone. “Hello?”

“Where the hell are you?” screams the man on the line. My boss.

“I’m finishing up an inspection,” I lie, glancing down at Mrs. Ramirez, who somehow looks peaceful.

“Well hurry up! I need you at the office.”

He hangs up before I can respond.

I sigh, slide my phone back into my pocket, and step closer to the bed. “Mrs. Ramirez!” Frustration raises my volume. “Can you hear me? All I need is your signature stating that you’ve been made aware of your denied claim. Then, I’ll be on my way.”

She opens her eyes, which surprises me. But more than that, she looks at me, then at my clipboard, and then back at me, her chest rising, falling, rising, falling, rising… And she raises her tiny hand from where it lay next to her and the wrinkled white sheets that cover her body.

I look at her for a long time. And at her hand hovering in the space between us. It trembles like a yellowed maple leaf in the cool winds of autumn.

My cell chimes, alerting me of the time. I’m behind schedule.

I’m behind schedule.

I’m behind—

I take her hand in mine, and her grip finds purchase on my fingers, squeezing them once, twice, three times. As if to make sure this is real. As if to make sure I am real.

She’s crying now, and she pulls me closer to her. I don’t resist. In fact, I sit on the edge of her bed and allow her to nestle my bony knuckles into the hollow of her wet cheek. Her tears flow over my fingers like a brook trickles over a fallen branch. And we stay like that for a long while.

I don’t know how much time passes. My cell chimes. Then it vibrates. But even then I don’t move. We don’t move. Mrs. Ramirez just holds on to my hand, the way people try to hold on to life. But I am not life. And some people can’t be saved.

I place the clipboard in my lap and sign my name next to the words, Attempts to contact were unsuccessful. The tip of my pen dips and swoops across the paper, like a scythe swinging over a field of grain.

Some people can’t be saved. But everyone deserves a second chance.

I guess that means me too.