Sage has a thing for weird deaths.

She isn’t quite sure when she started becoming obsessed with the wild ways people can die, but she knows enough tales to rattle them off without batting an eye. She can bring an entire dinner party to a screeching halt without having to mention politics even once.

She’s done it before.

It was at a stuffy affair for the fintech company she used to work for, and her misogynistic coworkers were being a unique flavor of awful, and . . .

Well, next thing she knew, she was telling them about this man who died when a cow inexplicably fell through his roof while he was sleeping.

Can you imagine?

One minute you’re fast asleep and dreaming, and the next thing you know, a fucking cow is hurtling toward you.

It’s not even her wildest death story, but having a vast repertoire is useful when she’s stuck in a shit situation—as she is right now.

Because honestly, right about now, Sage would take a cow dropping through the ceiling and ending her misery. Though, she’s probably going to die on this plane anyway, thanks to her own dumb choices.

She knew she had an early flight, but did that stop her from throwing back mid-shelf tequila with Emerson at their favorite West Hollywood bar last night?

It did not. And while it may have been in celebration of this very trip, and despite her current downing of two cups of shitty airline coffee, nothing is going to change the fact that she’s running on fumes.

There’s also a baby crying.

That usually doesn’t bother her. But her head is pounding and her eyes are blurry and the cursor on her laptop screen is blinking at her mockingly and . . .

Yeah.

She probably doesn’t need the cow.

She’s probably going to die anyway.