They bought Isabelle a one-way ticket to the Alps, all expenses paid. It was a private flight, off the books, so she traveled in a luxury she’d never known before. The bar only had high-end goods, so she poured her own flask of whiskey into a champagne glass and watched her favorite movies on the large crystal display until the rush of passing clouds put her to sleep.

Touching down in the private airport was like reaching the other side of the River Styx. Though instead of suffering and pain, Isabelle was met on this foreign shore with silence and peace. A bare white quilt spread before her, rising up as if pulled to the sky with invisible hooks by an artist’s delicate hand. 

Stepping off the plane felt like waking from a coma. The cold mountain air pressed down on her, reaching through Isabelle’s bulky jacket and scarf. Her dark hair twirled beneath her hat. She wondered if anyone else had felt this—standing on this exact spot. She hoped this moment was all her own.

She resented the grey square building before her for ruining the seamless view, but at least it would be heated.

She was higher up now than she was back then, when her brother got married at the foot of the mountain. Hugo had met his wife in some art class at college. They were the type to spend nights under the stars and wear long sleeves even in summer, so it was no surprise when they opted for a destination wedding in the Alps. The venue was expensive, owing mostly to the view, but his wife looked stunning in her white dress before a field of snow. Hugo thought it was worth it.

That had been a long plane ride. How her mother had complained, feeling every temperature drop in her bones, but it became a day she’d never forget. Isabelle understood the desire to commemorate a special occasion with a special place. You only had one chance, after all.

The heavy steel door swung open, and a gloved hand reached out. Its fingers curled, beckoning her to enter. She tramped through the snow and pulled herself into the warm building.

The decor was minimal—bare floors and walls and two desks covered in torn papers. She supposed most people who came here wouldn’t get the chance to complain. Most of the space was devoted to two heaters hooked to a portable generator, trying their best to liven up the room.

The door was closed behind her by a tall man in aviator sunglasses and a black wool coat. He smiled, revealing a gold tooth set squarely in plaque-ridden teeth.

“You are Ms. Norwood, yes?”

He spoke in a Russian accent. In the past, Isabelle might not have trusted a man like this, but she hardly cared now.

“You think anyone else would have come all this way?”

“Of course not. I’m only making conversation,” he sighed. “I swear, of all my jobs, I’ve never worked one with such snappy clients as this one!”

He shook his head and approached the nearest desk, unfolding a piece of paper and licking the tip of a ballpoint pen.

“Lighten up! This is a special day, after all!”

He scribbled hastily on the paper and swept a broad stroke across it.

“And sign the form.”

Isabelle nodded, tossing her scarf on the floor and unzipping her coat. She skimmed the sheet and, finding everything in order, scrawled a quick, practiced signature.

“Doctor, huh?”

She raised her eyebrow at him. 

“What makes you so sure?” she asked. 

“I’ve seen a lot of signatures in my time,” he flashed his gold tooth. “Lot of folks sign a lot, so they sign fast. But most of them still sign neat, because they care about how the document looks. Doctors don’t. They care more about doing the job right.”

“Good eye,” she said. “You fancy yourself some kind of detective?”

“Not at all. Sorry for not introducing myself,” he continued. “You can call me the Ferryman.”

“Clearly an alias,” She dug her hands in her pockets. “You don’t want me to know your name? What are you afraid of?”

“You never know who is listening,” the Ferryman crumpled the form into a ball and shoved it in his pocket. “And the company wouldn’t want anyone knowing I’m involved with them. Hurts the public image, you see.”

He approached a trunk in the corner of the room and leaned over, retrieving a small box. He poured the shiny metal contents into his hand and dropped them in his pocket. 

“Now, don’t get settled in already!” he said. “This is only the first leg in your journey!”

***

Isabelle never liked Hugo’s wife much. It felt awful to say, but Angela was too happy. 

Not that she tried to build a wall of ice between them, but whenever they tried to interact they’d slip in the same places. She couldn’t handle someone who brought nothing but sunlight to the world. Sometimes when you were caught in a blizzard, you didn’t want someone to build a fire. You wanted someone to embrace you until the end of the storm. 

They had a typical bachelorette party—a trip to a spa before a nighttime drive. Angela tried to talk to her about Hugo, how exciting the future was, but it just made her wonder if the Hugo she knew was gone forever. Maybe the cool breeze that tore through her head back then, when another song she didn’t know came over the radio, was the same breeze that touched her skin now at the peak of the Earth. 

Her and the Ferryman had to brave the cold for only a minute before he brought her into a different vehicle: a cable car erected between two peaks, suspended above a massive valley spotted with evergreens. 

“That’s a tourist hiking spot down there,” the Ferryman explained. “Could mean witnesses. We have to get to the other peak.”

She climbed aboard without a word, having outlived her will for small talk. The Ferryman pulled a lever and stepped inside, beginning their crossing of the valley. 

The cable car rumbled along for a few minutes before they spoke again. She satisfied herself with admiring the swirling snow outside the window and the gentle swaying of the car—then his voice cut through the silence. 

“Now I’m not supposed to ask questions,” he said. “But why are you here? Seems like a waste.”

Her sigh came out as a cloud of fog. 

“Do you say that to all the women?”

“Of course not!” The Ferryman laughed dryly. “My boyfriend would be pissed! But no, you know why I ask…”

“Because you think I still got people to save, right?” Isabelle stared with tired eyes. 

“I’m just saying most folk who sign up with us think they aren’t worth anything,” the Ferryman leaned back and rested his head on his hands. “And I’m not supposed to argue with that. But I think your patients would disagree.”

“Don’t pretend you know me.”

“I’m not pretending anything! I just think it’s only fair to make sure you’ve thought this through!”

“I have,” Isabelle clenched her fists. “That’s the problem.”

The last patient Isabelle had before she registered for her trip was a young man who looked to be just out of high school. He was in some sort of accident—she couldn’t really remember what—and bandaged and scarred all over his body. Her colleagues were always taught to control their emotions, but all of the aides had to get a little teary-eyed in there—especially when his mother showed up. 

“There’s something in this world worse than a bad doctor,” Isabelle said. “There’s me. A doctor who doesn’t care.”

It was in that moment, staring into the pained eyes of this child, wet with fear that the next day might not come, that Isabelle realized—it didn’t matter to her if he lived or died. And from then on, she couldn’t live as a doctor, and certainly not as a human worthy of the oxygen she was using up. 

“Has it occurred to you,” Isabelle snapped, her breath sharp like icicles. “That I might not want to spend my last hours reliving the painful thoughts that brought me here?”

“I guess it hasn’t,” the Ferryman chuckled sheepishly. “Here, I’ll stay quiet. Just try to enjoy the view! Maybe there’s even a few hikers down below us!”

Isabelle did glance out the window, mostly to avoid eye contact with the Ferryman. She couldn’t help but watch the few people deep in the valley, splashed in bulky parkas of bright red and green, carving their way between the fingers of dead trees. 

“They really look like the tiniest of beetles from up here, don’t they?”

***

Isabelle wanted to believe in love, but she lacked a reason to. She had partners, sure. They were fine people for the most part, but no matter how nice they were, the idea of spending her life with them made Isabelle feel trapped in an avalanche. 

She had prayed for Hugo and Angela. She certainly wasn’t jealous of them, but she couldn’t help but feel vindicated when Hugo turned up at her door with bloodshot eyes and an unshaved face. She always felt guilty though. 

It was roughly five years into their marriage at this point, but the way Hugo curled up on the sofa reminded him of the child she’d grown up with, still too young for the world he was born into. 

“I don’t know what’s going on,” Hugo sobbed. “She still won’t talk to me. What did I do?”

Isabelle patted his back and stared out the window, trying to figure out if it was too late for the usual lies. 

Was she betraying him by leaving on this trip? Isabelle was the first person Hugo went to in times of struggle, but here she was making this decision without him. Though she already knew what she’d say to her, so having that conversation out loud seemed like a waste of time.  

When the cable car reached the other side, she spoke again as the doors slid open. 

“I’ll turn your question back to you. Surely you’ve got better job opportunities out there than this?”

“I wouldn’t say so.”

The car shook behind him as the Ferryman stepped onto the next peak. He turned, raised his sunglasses, and winked. 

“Most other jobs with pay like this are too dangerous! This is my retirement hustle!”

“And why’s there so much money in it?”

Isabelle stepped off to join him. The peak they now stood on was home to another cable car station a few inches from a small wooden shed held together by only a few hinges. 

“It might hurt you to hear,” the Ferryman approached the shed. “But the black market is where the real money is.”

“I mean it. Enough with the vague answers,” Isabelle crossed her arms and stood her ground. “I want to know everything about this business. I feel like you owe me at least that.”

“Well, I’m not sure what you want me to say. Despite staying off the books, we have few secrets,” The Ferryman said. “For example, our founder is Avery Atwater—you could look him up, if you had signal. Atwater used to work for a company researching commercial space travel, see?”

“You did seem proud of your space travel options.”

“Of course. That’s where the company started,” The Ferryman said. “Atwater happened to realize space travel is more cheap and versatile if your passengers don’t want to come back!”

She shivered and pulled her coat tighter. The biting cold was making it harder to think. 

“He went from there,” the Ferryman continued. “Making more plans for places right on the edge of human reach, like deep in the ocean or the heart of a volcano. So if you were going to die, it would be surrounded by the beauty of nature and seeing things no other human had seen. That’s how Destination Suicide was born.”

“How did our world end up here?” Isabelle said. 

She was not yet willing to leave the cold. The conversation was enough to sustain her. However, the Ferryman glanced toward the shed impatiently. 

“I can’t tell you, ma’am. I’m just the muscle and all. But at the very least, we’re not broke.”

“Certainly not with the prices you’re charging.”

“We still had over 50 clients just this year! But my point is, our species has learned to break many barriers and ascend to impressive heights, but what’s that worth, really? For most of us, it’s made it even harder to breathe. And if you can’t breathe easy, what the hell do you even do?”

“I don’t know,” Isabelle’s breath became raspy. She thought she felt frost in her throat. 

“Neither does Atwater, but he does what he can till someone figures it out,” he placed his hand on the metal handle loosely-screwed to the door of the shed. “Now, I’m a summer boy at heart, so I can only take the cold so long! Let’s get this show on the road.”

She dragged her feet through the snow. The man was beginning to disappear into the swirling storm. She thought she was ready, but her palms still clenched in rage—a burning fury at the hole in her chest that refused to be filled. And when the Ferryman turned around, she still shuddered at the sight of the machine in his hands. 

It was a long, steel-barreled shotgun. 

***

On the day of Hugo’s wedding, when everyone had gathered at the foot of the snow-covered spire, Isabelle had spent most of her time gazing at the top. As nice as the venue was, that’s where she really wanted to be. She could forget about those relatives she didn’t want to see and cover up her doubts about Angela—how she’d seen her talk to a bridesmaid when Hugo’s favorite song blasted from the speakers, as if it were alien to her.  

When it came time to pick a spot for her final destination, the Alps seemed like an obvious choice. She realized now it wasn’t about the snow. She wanted to see her life from the outside, to view it at a distance. To get a better perspective of where it all went wrong. 

It was hard planning this whole thing with Hugo still in the house. There were the emails and phone calls to schedule the trip, but also her last affairs to take care of. Seeing old friends for the last time, making a few apologies, settling her will. Sometimes she was afraid Hugo would catch on, but he spent a lot of time locked in his study. She wasn’t sure what he even did anymore. 

Sometimes in the weeks between her application and the trip, she would have doubts. Sometimes her resolve would waver. But each time, she glanced at Hugo, struggling to crawl out of his own personal hell, and realized she didn’t care if he escaped or not. And again, she prepared for the end. 

A sharp needle of flame pierced the tip of her finger. She stood at the edge of the mountain, holding a burning photo of Hugo in her hand. The Ferryman stood behind her, aiming the shotgun at her back. 

“How much longer?” He asked. “My toes are freezing!”

Isabelle watched the ashes creep across the photo. “Just this. I needed to let go.”

The remains scattered over the edge of the cliff. The fire slipped through the air like a bright raindrop. And then Hugo’s face was gone—and she let him fade from her memory. 

“That’s it?” He said. “Are you done?”

She fell silent, pondering the view from the edge of creation. 

“I’ll take your silence as a yes.”

The cock of the shotgun was loud in the cold wind. 

“W-Wait,” Isabelle shouted. “I just want to look a little longer.”

The Ferryman smiled. 

“Wait for what? You’ve come this far!”

She had. In all her life, she had never strayed so far from the world she called home. All the minor annoyances and inconveniences she had come to begrudgingly accept had vanished into the white. And yet, she could see everything—every distant peak, every white-speckled tree, every shining cloud. 

It was as if nothing had changed. She could imagine that at the foot of the mountain, Hugo’s wedding was only just winding down. All of his closest acquaintances, hopped up on drinks from the afterparty, would rush outside to make snow angels like overgrown children. However, she would not endure probing questions regarding when her wedding would come around. She was up on the peak, where no joy could be felt—only respect for the elements that can create you and so quickly snuff you out. 

And yet, in the distance, something seemed to move beneath the snow. Some burrowing critter or a landing bird? Perhaps she was only seeing things. Still, the idea that even this place was not free of life scared her. The world could drag her back, even here. 

“Hey, Doc? I need an answer. Now!”

“It doesn’t feel right,” Isabelle stammered, aware once more of the shotgun’s icy muzzle. “To ruin this beautiful scene with my blood, you know?”

“Really? Could be quite pretty, I think,” he said. “Red and white…that’s Christmas colors!”

“Well, if I wanted my death to be a Christmas tableau, I would have put that in the form.”

“Look, this isn’t a sightseeing trip. This is a suicide trip,” The Ferryman said. “I don’t want your money to go to waste, but ultimately the customer decides. What do you want me to do?”

“I…want…”

She had known she would get cold feet when she stood on the precipice, and she wanted to stay faithful to her decision. Still, she was afraid to rip such a beautiful sight away in one brutal moment. This was the only time she would die, so why not go for something more graceful?

“I don’t want you to kill me,” Isabelle turned to face the Ferryman. “I don’t want to kill myself either. But I want to die here.”

The muzzle of the shotgun abruptly dropped to the snow. The Ferryman ran a hand across his face. 

“And what’s that mean?” He asked. “You want to just wait till the cold kills you?”

“Yes. That seems somehow more appropriate.”

“And more painful! Trust me, you’ll barely feel the shotgun. Just a little prick. Like your vaccines!”

“That’s not the problem. You said at the beginning that this was about letting me go out on my own terms. Well, I want to feel myself become lost from this world…even if it’s painful.”

He pulled his hat over his eyes and let out a sigh. 

“Fine. I suppose the freedom to decide is what makes us human,” he smiled. “And also, the freedom to regret. But if you do, it won’t be for long.”

His words seemed to draw the cold deeper to her bones. Isabelle wrapped herself tight and watched The Ferryman turn and head toward the cable car they’d arrived on. 

“I hope to see you again, Doctor!” he said. “You are quite the funny woman.”

The swirling snow blocked him from sight. Her skin was turning raw, and her fingertips were empty. The little flame burning in her heart was on its last embers. Her feet moved on their own, wanting to stoke it for just a little longer. She approached the shack The Ferryman had taken the shotgun from, the last sanctuary left for her. 

***

As she huddled in the cold shed, she tried to remember all the reasons she’d come here. It had all started with that kid, whose fate no longer mattered to her, but of course it had been building for some time. That was only the moment she realized how little she felt for those who depended on her; their suffering had brought her no pain, their recovery no joy. It was when she had first asked—was she even human?

The shed now contained only a revolver and a saw. There was nothing to warm her, and the wooden boards let in plenty of cold air between them. If she was not human, she could certainly die like one. 

Hugo was sweet, but he never learned to die gracefully. Even now, he still hung onto Angela, never bothering to file for divorce. The two had not spoken in nearly half a year, but taking the steps to sever their bond seemed beyond them. 

She knew when it was time to give up, and that’s why she lay here, feeling the life leave her body. She had fought for years with herself, and now she was done. 

Isabelle sat idly, spinning the chamber of the cold revolver in her hand. They were all loaded, and she saw each bullet pass by. Cold metal seen through a telescope. 

She became delirious. She couldn’t tell when one bullet became another. Rage overwhelmed her. She slammed the weapon in the snow and then aimed it at the ceiling, firing off a single shot. 

The new bullet hole let in more air—and more light. 

She wondered what would happen if she saw Hugo with a loaded gun on his desk. 

Another shot. Her heart beat desperately against the cold. 

Would she have tried to stop him? Obviously not. What right did she have to argue for the sanctity of life? But, wasn’t there still that loveless urge to maintain it?

Two more shots in a row. A spark flew from the barrel and landed on her shoulder. Its heat bore to her chest. 

If Hugo had known of her plans, she assumed he would have tried to stop her. He was always doing what was expected of him. But now, would he understand? Would he feel the loneliness she felt in a world that seemed alien? Was he more human than she was?

She pointed the gun at the floor and fired. Snow whirled into the air. 

The truth is—she would have said nothing to Hugo if he’d discovered her, and he would have done the same. In that moment, it all would have become real. 

She raised the pistol and aimed it at her head. Finger poised over the trigger. 

They would have been mirrors aimed at each other. Staring into exhausted eyes, but with a hint of disgust—that either of them would give up so soon. Allow themselves a moment of weakness, and dare to let the world win. 

Isabelle began to weep the few tears that remained. She could barely think and her vision was filling with fog. In that fog, she saw the moments she had forgotten. When she was a young girl at Christmas, waking up to a winter wonderland. How she had wept and screamed when she first lost a patient. When she loved things only because they were there. 

And she realized—she didn’t want to live, but she didn’t want to die. 

Maybe she wasn’t human. What was wrong with that? They wouldn’t notice either way. Her life was about more than saving people. I was about finding those moments of joy again and doing the best she could. She was fine the way she was, and it took seeing herself from high on the mountain to understand that. 

The barrel pressed tight against her temple. How had she let herself die here? Her fight was nowhere near over. She had spent long enough waiting to be happy. It was time to be satisfied. 

But her last breath was moments away, and she was the one person she couldn’t save. Her only tool was one bullet, and it would do nothing to combat the creeping cold that was only seconds away from swallowing her—

But then—

The door swung open—

And a man appeared. She tried to raise her gun, but her arm was too slow. He kicked it aside and threw a blanket around her. The shape of his face slowly came into focus. 

“You…”

“Well? Change your mind?”

The Ferryman smiled down at her. When she nodded shakily, he wrapped her in his arms and brought her to her feet. 

“Good. You should have a chance if we get you somewhere warm. Come on…”

He brought her out of the shed, carrying her on his shoulder. 

“This organization…it was never real, was it?” Isabelle asked. 

“I think Atwater and the other employees believe in it,” he said. “But for me, I’ve found that some people don’t know they want to live until they die. That’s my way of saving lives.”

As the snow swirled around them, the world seemed to slip away. It seemed they were crossing land that had never been traveled before. Whether green grass or ashen rock lay beneath, she could not possibly imagine. 

“And you know?” The Ferryman said. “This would have been a great place to die.”

Isabelle tried to laugh. 

“I can think of better.”