The Art Of Dying
Not when we were about to march into the most dangerous place in the afterlife.
"Again," Mickey barked. He came at me fast, claws extended.
I dodged left. His claws whistled past my face, close enough that I felt the breeze.
"Faster."
We went again. And again. And again. By the twentieth repetition, I was exhausted, covered in sweat, and no closer to feeling like I could actually contribute.
"You're thinking too much," Mickey said, not even breathing hard. "Stop trying to predict. Just react."
"I'm trying."
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