You Are Not Dead, Yet.

Clyde Harvey smoked a pack of cigarettes every day.

He loved the ritual—the warm smoke filling his lungs, watching gray ribbons curl toward the sky.

He knew cigarettes would kill him eventually.

Every evening, he walked through the pine forest behind his house, thinking about quitting. Tomorrow, maybe. Next week for sure.

One twilight, a hiker asked for a light. Clyde obliged, as he always did. The hiker thanked him, and after walking away tossed the the still-burning cigarette into the dry underbrush.

The forest fire didn't reach Clyde's house but the deadly smoke filled his lungs and he didn't wake up.

Clyde is dead.