She stares down at it. Her voice dry, she says without looking at me, “Says here you died three minutes and forty-two seconds ago. Does that sound about right?”
I stutter out a pathetic attempt at a response. “I’m not—I didn’t—what?”
She peers up at me, a crease forming between her eyebrows.
“You don’t remember your death? It says here that drunk driving was the cause.”
“I had two glasses of wine,” I argue, not admitting that it would have been three had Alex not stopped me. Would’ve, could’ve, should’ve, but the important part is that Ididn’t. It was two glasses of wine over the course ofhours. “Is that really drunk driving?”
“It is if it results in a car accident. So you do remember?”
I stand and begin to pace, frustrated. “I was not drunk. I wasdistracted. And I’m not—” I can’t even say it. “I mean—that is, if I’m no longer… how am I here? Are you a figment of my imagination? Am I in a coma?”
“You’re here because you died. If you hadn’t died, you couldn’t be here.” She gestures at the generalherearound us.
“Andhereis where, exactly?”
“This is my office.”
Her words are slow, deliberate, like she thinks I’m stupid. Similar to the tone the receptionist used with me just moments ago.
“Okay, I’ll play along. If this is the afterlife—”
“It isn’t.”
“Then what is it?” I stop pacing.
“If you’ll sit, I’ll explain.”
I stare at her. She doesn’t even blink.
Oh, she’s good.
I sit but continue to stare. Now that I’ve had a moment to think, I say, “I motion to reduce my charges down to reckless driving.”
“You’re not being charged with anything.”
“Then why mention drunk driving?”
“Because that’s how you died,” she says simply.
“There is no way my blood alcohol was above the legal limit.”
“It was not,” she confirms.
“Then how—”
“We currently exist outside the boundary of laws.”
As ifthatisn’t a truly disturbing concept. Although I think she meant to reassure me.
She takes my silence as permission to continue.
“As I was saying, you died”—she consults the folder—“five minutes and eight seconds ago.”
I blink. Is the time written in the folder changing by the second? That doesn’t—
I catch myself in a cycle of the same thought on infinite loop. Ofcourseit doesn’t make sense; none of this does. It’s all strange. It’s all weird. It’s all nonsense. I pinch myself, and it hurts. Her eyes clock the movement, and something that looks almost like amusement tugs at her lips—but only for a moment; blink and you’d miss it.
