I picked myself up from the ground.
“What are you?” I asked.
“Sorry,” the man said. “It’s the closest person I could mimic.”
I sat in the recliner in my living room and he sat in a rocking chair in front of me.
“What was that out there?”
“Your personal price,” he said. “You have to know the feeling of death to speak to the man himself.” He was very soft spoken.
I sat up assertively. “I want him back,” I said.
“Who? Be more specific so I can help you.”
He sat back in the chair and closed his eyes, thinking. “Oh yes, May 6th, suicide, 13-years-old. Why?”
I was dumbfounded. Pissed actually.