Isaac shrugs a little, the movement barely perceptible, a hint of motion instead of anything defined. He's not afraid. In fact, he's trying to care. It's like he's hollow and if he's shaken too hard, he'll rattle inside. Death is trying to rattle him, but there's nothing in there yet that's come loose.

"I tried fighting the future," Isaac says, and oh, God, how much truth is there in that? He fought and railed and rallied and gave up and gave in. There's no fighting what will come. It's like trying to stop the tide. "It's too big for me. Maybe you can do better."