She met up with an old friend by accident. She was standing in a crowd, sharing a story about her attempt to "urban farm" by raising snails when she heard a snort. She knew it was Mike before she saw him, he had always greeted her crazy ideas with that sound and to her it held his appreciation and disbelief.

"Mike!" she greeted him, "it has been so long! What have you been doing?"

"Hanging out in libraries," he said.

"Reading?" and as she asked, it dawned on her that Mike had been dead for over five years.

"No, there's a lot of music in libraries. I'm there for the music."

"Huh. You look good, Mike," she said.

And he did, he was dressed in black, with bright, colored fabrics at his joints and peeking out from his collar, sleeves, and pant legs. Solid patches of red, yellow, purple, and blue, even his shoes were brightly colored.

"I want you to remember something," he said looking at her intently, "Make your life a series of excellent extinct moments. Excellent Extinct."

"Excellent Extinct," she repeated.

"Excellent Extinct," he said back to her.

She knew from experience that time with the dead is always very short, and she felt herself begin the journey back, movement like propelled air rushing at her feet. She reached to grasp his hand, but his arm simply fell away from his body. "I don't want to leave!" she thought. And the movement stopped. She could make the decision to stay. But then it occurred to her, "I have a child, I must go home to my boy." And she moved again, and then found herself conscious in bed.

"Make your life a series of excellent extinct moments," she said aloud. She had understood it as "distinct" when he said it, but as she repeated it she realized he had clearly said "extinct." She wasn't sure what it meant, although it struck her as Mike's humor. She got out of bed to find a pen and write it down before she forgot.