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“Physics are altered here,” Margaret explains, holding an arm out. “Very similar on Earth, but the small variations render dramatic differences.” Puffs of white breath form in front of her. A creeping cold enters the room, my toes turning even more pink, the air chilling my lungs. And just as quickly as that comes, I’m back to feeling placid.

“Have I been kidnapped or something? Drugged? Please, just tell me the truth.”

“I already told you the truth. Come with me. I will introduce you to the Underworld, and how you will integrate here. It’s my job as your docent.”

I huff, trying to remember my life, desperately wanting to recall how my hands are supposed to look. It’s like staring at a blank book, knowing words once lined the pages.

What am I to do?

“Wait, you’re a docent? I get a docent in the afterlife?” I ask, skeptically crossing my arms. My brows furrow, as I don’t remember it being this easy. Were my breasts bigger than they are now?

“Yes, how else can you accommodate? That’s what a docent does. Guides you through an experience,” Margaret says, as if it’s obvious.

I purse my lips as I stare at her. “I don’t… um, I don’t know.”

“Yes, you are clearly very confused Penelope. And this is not the afterlife, but that’s easy to mix up. You will learn. That’s why we have docents.” Margaret languidly steps to the side, even rolling her eyes.

I’m unsure how to read my docent, who seems to fall between patient and obliged. Why would I conjure up someone like that in a hallucination? Why not greet me with a margarita?

Oh, the canned ones were so good. My eyes slightly widen as I can almost taste it on my tongue.

I grip my dress like it’s an old habit from a stranger—wait, I don’t recall wearing dresses. I look down and see I’m essentially wearing a pale brown bag that comes to just below my knees.

I deeply inhale, shaking my head before standing. “Fine.” Even though the floor is cold underneath my feet, my toes do not turn to ice as I expected. It’s as if I can tell what the temperature should be, but the sensation doesn’t last. I follow her through a corridor of the same dark, wet stone. The sound of Margaret's heels echoes endlessly.

I try to piece together my reality, to remember the canned booze, and how I’d always drink after sitting down with one client in particular. She was difficult, mirroring a lot of my childhood, but she relied on me. So, I continued to see her… oh, yes… I was a psychologist, wasn’t I? Theories from books and many sessions resurface, and I accept that this is some sort of processing. Maybe I’ve left the margarita behind because I clearly have things to tend to.

Perhaps I need to probe this a bit more, to see where the chinks are in the armor that this ‘Margaret’ is displaying. Maybe she’s a manifestation of my mommy issues.

I have those, right? That feels right. My difficult client had them, too.

I graze my fingers against stone that remains frigid and unmoving. I don’t remember dreams being this visceral about mundane details.

"Who is in charge here?" I ask, my voice cracking. “Is there order at all?”

"Each Realm has its own ruler. This one has what you would call a king, but we call him Dominus. Demons typically take those titles in Realms like ours.”

"So I'm in Hell." My throat constricts as that possibility starts to grip me, my breathing increasing.

"No, Penelope. Think of it like taking a plane to Paris, only to end up in Barcelona. Very similar, all things considered. But so many nuances that make them different. This is the Underworld, not Hell.”

I raise my stare back at the walls, taking in the rough surface again. Too many stagnant details for a dream… “Why is it so empty in this hall?”

“So as not to overwhelm you,” Margaret informs, her back still to me.

“Why would you care?”

“Because the Underworld is an actual living, breathing place, governed by society and rules. You will have to learn them, Penelope. Breaking them will result in punishment. It’s simply not fair to start someone off with breaking all the rules as they assimilate. So that’s why we care.” She uses her first two fingers to mimic air quotes as she says that last word.

There’s a striking juxtaposition between her appearance and using that body language. My pulse stretches into my neck, because this is starting to feel, well, real.

Anxiety grips me, and I decide to momentarily participate in this fabrication. “Why do you have a nice, pretty dress, and I have what appears to be a potato sack?”

A high-pitched chuckle escapes her, echoing endlessly in this corridor. “Oh yes, I don’t envy your potato sack. Its plainness is, once again, so nothing derails you. It’s all a part of this liminal space as your soul settles here.”

Silence settles between us, save for the sound of her heels. “You speak so modern. And fluent English. What if I was French?”

“Half of our job, as docents, is to immerse ourselves in the cultures. Time moves slower here, so it’s not too hard. The medieval era felt like it took ten thousand years. We’ve been here serving the dead of deities long forgotten… also, spoken language is immediately translated.”