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Mysterious Ways by Steven Utley When the pain in his body began in earnest and forced him to admit to himself that his time had finally come, the last man in the world went to his crude cot, to lie trembling amid ancient, smelly blankets. He lay there, waiting, almost until dawn. Nothing was revealed. The man sighed softly and fell into an exhausted sleep. Later that morning, his animal friends came as they always had to the garden in the lot behind the ruined supermarket. They had grown fond of listening to the stories he told and the songs he sang in his high, brittle voice. When he failed to appear, some of the beasts crept into the disintegrating building and slipped into his little room to wait quietly in the shadows beyond a wavering perimeter of light cast by stub candles at the head of the cot. The last man sensed their presence after some time had passed. He raised his head with painful effort and smiled into the darkness. “My friends,” he murmured, “my good and dear companions, I am dying.” They knew. The odd cat gave a brief, whining howl. The big, strange dogs whimpered and ducked their heads. The lesser things that had come shifted nervously on small padded paws and sniffed the close air, trying to determine the nearness of death. “It is nothing to fear,” the man gasped weakly |
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