What happens after you die?

  The sandbag swung to the side and rotated some as my left hook struck home, the chains holding it aloft clinking against each other as it spun. I followed with a left jab, a right cross, one more clean punch from the left, then danced away from the bag and held my taped-up fists in a guard position. Just a sandbag, but still, bad habits were worth avoiding regardless of the situation.

  The boxing gym I frequented, Phancy Phootwork, was just across the bridge into Georgetown and then a bit south, and called a visibly dilapidated warehouse home. The appearance was on purpose. The owner was a charitable sort, and he kept the warehouse looking outwardly abandoned so that unhoused persons felt more encouraged to open the door and go inside… whereupon they were met with a sign saying they were free to stay, instructions for the showers and laundry, and coupons that they could trade at one of the local eateries for a pre-paid meal on the owner’s dime.

  He was also the owner of the only boxing gym in this part of DC that would let an obvious Moonshot like me join without conditioning my membership on a half-dozen completely arbitrary caveats.

  It should be no surprise then that Philip Philopoulos easily made my short list of Genuinely Good People, especially when his one condition for letting me use the gym alone at weird hours was just to be kind to any unexpected guests. And to not scare anybody off without good reason, of course.

  Plus, after yesterday’s asscrack-of-dawn bullshit, my sleep cycle was fucked, and I’d been awake since three.

  All of this was to explain why I was currently beating the stuffing out of someone else’s well-worn sandbag at the painfully early hour of 4:17am. And as I did this, I was busy turning over a very important question in my head: what happens after you die?

  Oh, sure, the obvious follow-up was to start talking about decomposition, or whatever afterlife you believed in, or some such. But I wasn’t approaching the question from a philosophical standpoint, or even a scientific one. I was approaching it from a more practical point of view. And this narrowed the question down to a more concise and pointed inquiry:

  After you’ve died, what comes next for everyone else?

  Legally speaking, death was a Big Fucking Deal. Entire fields of law were built with acknowledgment of mortality at their foundation, and dozens more understood the inevitability of death. And taxes, but we’d get to that later.

  Sometimes the answers were obvious. Sometimes the answers needed a bit of research.

  But sometimes… sometimes the answers weren’t apparent. Sometimes you had to flip a coin and pray that an answer would present itself in time. Sometimes there simply were no answers, but you couldn’t know that without getting your hopes up, and the stress and uncertainty were making you so, fucking, MAD—!

  “ARGH!”

  Purple flames burst out as my fist landed against the bag in one last, meaty blow. I let out a slow, hissing exhale, frustration at my lack of control mixing with the sweat I’d worked up as I turned away from the bag and… wait, that sounded like… was… had I lit the bag on fire?

  I turned back towards the bag. It was blackened a little bit where my fist hit, and… smoking. And glowing a little…

  … ohshititwasonfire—!

  “Shit, shit, shit, no no no no no!”

  Fuck, I had to put this out, where was that towel!? No no no I’d just had it around my neck, where did it—my tail! I reached around to my back and grabbed the towel that’d slipped down from my neck; okay, now I just needed water, where did I put down my—no, no, no time! I was sweaty! That would do!

  Okay, unroll the towel, sop up as much sweat as possible, okay that was damp enough it would have to do, now just had to slap — this — damn — fire — out!

  “Please go out, please go out, please go out, please please please I don’t want to pay for another new bag—!”

  … was it out?

  I pulled the towel away and checked, wincing at the scorch marks I’d left behind, and felt the material a tad. Then I gave it an experimental punch right on the burned spot, then another, and a third.

  Nothing. It didn’t break, and not so much as a single grain of sand leaked out.

  “Oh, thank fuck,” I gasped, my panting morphing into relieved chuckling. “Hoo, I’m so glad nobody saw that!”

  “I wouldn’t be—”

  “Oh holy what the—!” I yelped, jumping out of my skin at the voice from behind me belonging to somebody I absolutely should have heard coming in; how the hell—

  I spun to look at the newcomer, and stopped dead in my tracks when I saw him. He had a heavy woolen overcoat on, the type you saw men wear over their suits in the winter, and a color-matching pair of thick, brown corduroys. Matte leather boots disappeared under the cuffs of his pants, which themselves matched the pair of gloves that he’d just about finished stuffing into a pocket.

  And atop it all was an ever-so-familiar and welcoming face, warm, emerald-green eyes, and thick black hair shot through with the smallest traces of gray.

  I flashed into flame and reappeared in front of the man, squealing in glee as I wrapped him in the biggest hug I could!

  “Oh my God, Ambrose!” I yelped between happy giggles, which intensified into full-blown laughter as he hugged me back and spun me around. “You big jerk, you snuck up on me!”

  “In more ways than one, dear girl!” Ambrose agreed, setting me back down on the ground and playfully ruffling both my ears and the hair between them. “By the by, you may thank your good sir fox for telling me where to find you.”

  “That cheeky shit, why I oughta,” I mumbled, but my laughter ruined the threatening tone I was going for. My hug ended after one last squeeze, and I batted Ambrose’s hand away from my hair and ears as I skipped back to pick up my towel and figure out where I’d last put my water bottle. “Also like, what the hell! You didn’t tell me about being in town!”

  “Yes, well, it was a bit of a last-minute affair!” Ambrose exclaimed. “The ambassadors from Ireland and the UK are feuding again, quite the nuisance, but… ah… Naomi, luv?”

  “Hm?” I half-mumbled, half-asked. Damn it, where did I put that thing?

  “Is something the matter?”

  “Trying to remember where I put my water bottle,” I told him, tilting my ears in his direction. “You know, the insulated—”

  “—thermos bottle with the Hello Kitty stickers on all sides, yes,” Ambrose said, finishing my sentence for me. “Is that it over there, atop the water cooler?”

  I stopped, tilted my ears a bit, and turned towards the dull electric hum of the water cooler. Sure enough, there it was — one heavy-duty, 32-ounce, double-walled metal thermos bottle, dinged and dented pastel-blue metal barely visible through the absolute smorgasbord of Hello Kitty stickers that almost overlapped each other.

  “… oh my God, did I seriously fill it, drink, and put it — Ambrose?”

  “Yes, luv?”

  “Could you call me an airhead, please?”

  “I could!” Ambrose said with the cheekiest tone. “Would you like me to?”

  I turned to give Ambrose a pointed deadpan look, but my ears gave away my amusement. Ambrose started walking my way, chuckling as he picked up my discarded towel en route and draped it over my head and ears once he reached me.

  “Ambrose, it’s great to see you, but I was hoping to get in a bit more time hitting the bag,” I said as I pulled the towel off my head and let it rest around my neck again.

  “And I dare say you would be more pleasant company when not sweaty,” he agreed. “How about this, then: seven-thirty, Yumi’s. I do believe a shower would do us both good.”

  I thought for a second. That gave me… another fifteen minutes on the bag, two-and-a-half hours or so to shower and do my hair, and a bit to catch up before work.

  “Sounds good,” I said, grabbing the roll of boxer’s tape to redo my left hand; I’d scorched it with the same punch that lit the bag on fire. “And I’ll drag Gorou along; he keeps sleeping through it and then griping about never getting good tea.”

  “Very well; in that case, I’ll leave you to it!” Ambrose exclaimed, giving me a grin as he turned back towards the exit. “Oh, and Naomi, dear?”

  “Yeah?” I asked, tying off the tape on my hand and setting the roll back down.

  “Try not to light any more of the bags on fire,” he teased. In response, I rolled my eyes, lowered my ears, and flipped him both the bird and his own preferred two-finger salute.

  Ambrose’s laughter echoed off the walls of the gym as I turned around and faced the bag, raising my fists into a ready stance. A friendly face didn’t erase the frustration, I thought as my fists belted out a rhythm against the leather, mercifully free of flame this time.

  But even so, having somebody to talk to certainly lightened the load.

  You would think that walking around DC with a silver-furred fox splayed over my shoulders like a scarf would draw attention, or at least more attention than I already did. But hilariously, it had the opposite effect entirely! People saw the foxgirl walking around? Instant attention. People saw a silver-furred fox draped over somebody? Instant attention.

  But for some unknown reason, ‘foxgirl carrying a fox’ drew almost no eyes my way, ever! It was the weirdest thing!

  When I’d initially gotten in from the boxing gym, Gorou was out like a light, sprawled belly-up on my bed and all four tails splayed across my pillow, that little shit. He was still asleep even two hours later, after I’d showered, done my hair, blow-dried my tail, and gotten all set to go.

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  So I just… picked him up, set him around my shoulders, and started walking over.

  Gorou didn’t wake up until I was walking around the traffic circle for which Dupont Circle was named, and his wake-up stretching nearly shoved his legs and tails into the face of other pedestrians in the crosswalk. He opened his eyes and blinked blearily, turning to look at me with a question.

  “Yumi’s,” I told him. Gorou gave one more sleepy mumble, sounding for all the world like just an ordinary fox as he wriggled and shifted around my shoulders. He ended up with most of his weight on my right shoulder and peeking his head out from between my ears, making me glad I’d gone for a low ponytail today, otherwise I’d have had to redo it after he got comfy.

  I exited the circle heading west on P Street, but very quickly turned left and up a staircase to an upstairs business after only passing one other building on the block. I opened the door, pushed past it to a little foyer (meant to keep the cold out or in, depending on the season), and then into the cafe itself, a little tinkling bell announcing my entrance.

  “Good morni—oh!” The woman behind the counter stopped when she saw me, and her eyes positively lit up when she saw Gorou. When she spoke again, it was in Japanese this time, which Gorou perked up on hearing. “Welcome back! And the fox came this time!”

  “I had to carry him partway,” I said, stepping up to the counter and retrieving my wallet from my purse. “How have you been, Yumi-san?”

  Even after being fluent in Japanese for most of my life, it still felt weird to use honorifics, probably because Gorou and I never used them for one another, and I even tended to just drop them once I was close enough to someone. But unfortunately, there was a difference between being a friendly regular, and being an actual friend.

  Yumi Koyasu, to say her name in the western order, was not quite a friend. She was the owner of Rising Sun Cafe, and she ran the only cafe in DC that Gorou could stand to order from. He’d had me get tea and matcha concoctions from over two dozen different places before accepting a recommendation from the staff at Japan’s embassy, and after we finally tried this one, we were hooked. Then Gorou told Ambrose that this was the one he liked, and, well… I became a weekly regular, especially since it was only a slight detour on the way down to the office.

  And while Gorou only ever bothered to join every so often, let’s just say that when he did… well, getting him to leave was a far greater trial.

  “I have been well, thank you, Naomi-san,” Yumi said, offering a short bow. Then she clapped in delight when Gorou jumped down from my shoulders to land on the counter, and immediately set about burying her fingers into his soft, thick fur. “Hello again, kitsune-sama! Oh, your fur is so soft!”

  “Gorou, let Yumi do her job before you steal all her attention,” I jokingly chastised. Gorou gave me the stink-eye and turned up his nose, but he did hop down from the counter, to Yumi’s audible disappointment. “Sorry,” I mumbled, lowering my ears in apology.

  “It’s okay,” Yumi said, brightening up once she looked down to see Gorou staring back up at her in eager anticipation. “What can I get for you both?”

  “I’ll have my usual and a mochi donut; Gorou will probably want you to surprise him. We’ve got one more coming, though,” I told Yumi, drawing her interest. “Do you remember the English gentleman?”

  “Oh, yes! He liked the maple matcha latte, yes?”

  I blinked in surprise, ears perking up as I just nodded.

  “Okay, I’ll get those started for you. Take a seat and I will bring them to you, okay?”

  “Of course; thank you!” I tapped my card to pay, offered Yumi another smile, then sat down at one of the four small tables set aside for cafe-goers. Gorou grudgingly padded over and hopped onto one of the chairs, eyes fixed on Yumi for the instant she was free to continue lavishing him with pets and praise.

  Ordinarily, I would be surprised that the two of us were the only ones here, given it was around 7:30 am, but most of the businesses around here were the type that opened around nine or ten. Yumi’s busy period wouldn’t start for another hour or so, which meant that it was the perfect spot to briefly catch up with Ambrose.

  Speaking of Ambrose, he arrived only two minutes after I’d sat down. He acknowledged Yumi’s “Irasshaimase!” with a greeting of his own, and joined Gorou and me at the table.

  “You already paid, didn’t you?” Ambrose had a conspiratorial grin on his face and mirth danced in his emerald-green eyes.

  “Hey, you didn’t let me pay for anything last time you were in town,” I said with an amused flick of my ears. “I can treat you too, you know.”

  “And now you refuse to indulge my generosity?” Ambrose gave a loud gasp, forced and melodramatic, but his smile gave him away. “I’m hurt! Nay, I’m slain! Oh, how shall I ever go on?”

  “Eh, more that… look, I know it’s silly, you’ve said it a million times, but I still sometimes feel like I’ve taken advantage of you,” I said, ears falling slightly limp as I tried not to dwell too much on the past. “Like, I know you said your door was always open to me, I know you meant it, but there’s a difference between bumming your couch for a few nights and taking over your guest room for years.”

  “Which, if you quite recall, was my idea,” Ambrose added. “Speaking of those years, if I recall correctly, you should expect to hear from one of the professors regarding an invitation to visit and speak on Moonshot affairs.”

  “... really?” I asked, trying to suppress some amount of discomfort. “I mean… God, it’s been forever since I’ve been to a conference. Will I even have the time? When is it, actually?”

  “It’s the first week of May.”

  “Um…” I couldn’t recall anything already planned for that week in particular, but deadlines were fickle things. “Could you pass along that I’m not sure yet? I’m not sure I’ll have the time for it.”

  “Well if you do manage to fit the trip into your schedule, please avoid the alcohol this time,” Ambrose teased. “I would rather you not have a second go at burning down half of Oxford.”

  “H-hey!” I yelped, pulling my ears low in embarrassment. “That was an accident, and you know it!”

  “Of course it was, luv,” Ambrose said. But there was something in his tone that told me he didn’t mean it. So I crossed my arms, raised my ears, harrumphed, and turned up my chin.

  “Thank you for waiting!” Whatever quippy response I’d dreamt up was cut off at the knees as Yumi approached our table with a tray in her hands, laden with two drinks and a pair of mochi donuts that she unloaded in front of us. I wondered for a moment where Gorou’s beverage was, but had that question answered for me when Yumi set the tray aside on an unused table and scooped the fox up in both arms instead. Gorou turned towards me with a happy little grin on his foxy face as Yumi set him down on the counter, pushed a wide bowl over to him, and buried her fingers in Gorou’s fur as he happily lapped up whatever delightful concoction she’d come up with this time.

  “God, I wish that were me,” I murmured as Yumi’s nails scratched at the base of Gorou’s left ear, drawing a whine from him as he leaned further into her touch.

  Then I almost mirrored that whine as Ambrose’s fingers found the base of my right ear and oh my fucking God that felt so good…

  “There,” Ambrose said, drawing his hand away after just a few seconds. I whimpered slightly in distaste, then felt my cheeks heat up and ears fold down low as I remembered where I was and what I was doing. “Now you won’t feel as jealous.”

  I didn’t reply, choosing instead to bury my embarrassment by chowing down on the mochi donut I’d ordered, much to Ambrose’s amusement.

  “My apologies,” he said with some laughter as he took a sip of his own beverage. “When did we last speak… I believe it was Boxing Day, yes? Your case was due for trial, was it not?”

  “Yeah, and we were actually supposed to be going through our case in chief today,” I said.

  “I presume, then, that your earnest desire to beat the tar out of that poor sandbag earlier this morning is due to whatever interruption has occurred?” Ambrose asked.

  “Client died yesterday.”

  “... ah.” Ambrose’s lack of response was an invitation to elaborate.

  “Her new apartment building burned down around half past three am yesterday,” I began. “And technically, she hasn’t been declared dead yet, but… well.” I frowned down into my drink, and took a sip. Unfortunately, not even the best strawberry matcha latte in Washington DC was enough to cure my melancholy. “The only known survivors were on the ground and second floors, most of those are in ICU burn units right now, and my client was on the eighth floor. So practically speaking, she’s dead, and that… well, it probably takes the case with her.” I sighed, and took another sip. Nope, the second one also didn’t help my mood any.

  “And what of the practicalities?” Ambrose asked. “If I recall correctly, your client was a sole plaintiff. What are your next steps?”

  “Try to see how the claim survives her death,” I said. “But the case started because her kids died, her parents passed a year after her youngest was born, her husband was an orphan of the foster system, he predeceased her, and she was an only child. No surviving family to take over the claim.”

  “And could you not take up the claim, stating that her loss counts as damages to yourself and your firm?”

  “God, I wish.” I let out a rueful chuckle at his words, because that would’ve been the easy way, but no. “No, we’d just… write off wasted work on our taxes, based on a reasonable approximation of the billable hours, then hope our friends among the IRS’s attorney advisors will agree with our reasoning. Usually works.”

  “But you’ve not given up?” Ambrose pressed.

  “No,” I said with a shake of my head. “If I have to start over and sue for my client’s wrongful death instead, I will. It’s just… I hate this! I know that fire was no accident; it was too damn convenient for the defendants to have been otherwise, but I may not be able to actually do anything about it, and that sucks!”

  I flicked my ears Ambrose’s way when I heard his chair scraping slightly against the floor, and moments later, his arm pulled me into a half-embrace. I leaned into it and closed my eyes, just savoring the warmth and the contact, letting it wash some of my worries away.

  “Regardless of what has happened,” Ambrose said directly into my ear, voice low and comforting, “I believe you will find a path forward. You are a strong, willful woman, Naomi. And where there’s a will, there’s a way.”

  “Mm,” I murmured. Yeah… yeah. Ambrose was probably right. This whole mess had only just happened, and I hadn’t even had a proper night’s sleep between then and now. It was nice to know he believed in me, though, and that there was… a…

  … wait. Wait, no, hold on, what had—

  My ears perked up, and I bolted straight upright, Ambrose’s arm falling away.

  “Naomi?”

  “What did you just say at the end there?” I asked, mind racing.

  “Ah…” Ambrose blinked, somewhat confused. “Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”

  “Where there’s a—oh my God, oh why did I not think of that,” I murmured to myself, a grin spreading across my face as the faint stirrings of hope sparked in my chest. “I need to go.”

  “What — already?” Ambrose asked, concern coloring his voice as I chugged the rest of my matcha latte down and wrapped the rest of my donut in a napkin.

  “No time!” I exclaimed, hopping up from my chair. “The sooner I get this filing in, the better! Gorou, time to—”

  “Stay put,” Ambrose interrupted as I heard him stand from his chair and place one hand on my shoulder. “I shall see him return safely home, dear girl. You go do your job.”

  “Ah…” I paused, glancing at Gorou. When the fox nodded, I turned and looked up to meet Ambrose’s eyes. “You sure?”

  “Of course,” he said. “It would be my pleasure.”

  “O-okay.” I nodded, then reached out to Ambrose for one more quick hug before heading to the door. “Thanks, dad, love you, Gorou be good, gotta go bye!”

  And with that I was out the door and out onto P Street, hanging a quick right back towards Dupont Circle as I tossed the last of my mochi donut into my mouth. I wasn’t technically due into the office for another hour or so, but if I wanted this process to actually go fast enough to preserve our current jury, I’d need the judge’s help to cut through the red tape involved.

  Because Ambrose was right: where there’s a will, there’s a way. Those words reminded me of something very important.

  They’d helped me remember just where to find that will.