Book found himself in a field. The sun was high, the sky cloudless, and around him cicadas droned a familiar rise-and-fall. It smelled like every farm planet he'd ever been on, like the sweet grass behind the Abbey. It made him smile.
A man sat cross-legged beside a fire, poking idly at the coals. Something wheaten baked in an iron skillet. "Pan-bread's almost ready," he called, and then looked up. "You're not Don," he said, unnecessarily.
"It appears not," Book agreed.
The man shrugged. "Have a seat. Want some water?" He held up a canteen.
Now that he thought on it, Book was indeed thirsty. He sat, and drank, and the man offered a hand. "I'm Richard."
"Derrial," Book said.
"You a pilot?"
Book laughed. "Hardly, though I spent some time on a Firefly."
"Don't know that model," Richard said, looking sorry. "I fly a Fleet."
Book looked around, instinctively, though there was no sign of a craft, and hadn't been when he...arrived?
"It's not here, obviously," Richard said.
No point in beating around the bush, was there? "Where... is here?"
Richard looked baffled for a moment, then laughed. "I'm not sure I know. A dream, I guess."
"I see," Book said, though he wasn't sure he did.
"Don said I could always find him here, if I really needed to talk." Richard shrugged.
Book considered. This wasn't the afterlife he had imagined. Strictly speaking, he wasn't sure what this was. But there couldn't be harm in befriending a stranger, could there?
"I'm happy to listen," he said.
Richard seemed to consider this. "You seem like a listener." There was a pause. "Well, the bread oughtta be ready. You got time for a story?"
"All the time in the world," Book said, and knew it to be true.
(300 words)
The End