The afterlife wasn’t what anyone had told him. The show Lost had made it seem like a place where all times were present. His Mormon friend had told him he would get his own planet. His Catholic mother had told him he needn’t worry about it. The paradise in which body and mind were perfected was reserved for those that were good enough. Which he wasn’t.
But the moments after a runaway car had sent him along he had regained consciousness in what appeared to be a giant library. The odor of lignin hung in the air. Rows upon rows of shelves connected and intersected, borne seats at junctions, waiting to be sat upon with one of the multitude of books to be read. Old books, new books, atlases, hardbacks, paperbacks, fiction and non.
Maybe he’d been good enough to get into heaven after all.