The Dead Boy's Guide To Second Chances

1. celestial pyramid scheme

SIX MINUTES AND TWENTY-FOUR SECONDS AFTER THE DEATH OF OLIVER SALLOW

Oliver Sallow's first thought post-mortem is that God's feet are kind of tiny.

At least, he thinks that it's God. Hopes so. He wills his foggy brain to conjure up memories that would suggest someone else has reason to come for him, but comes up empty. At the tender age of eighteen, he hasn't actually had that many opportunities to sin excessively, some minor blasphemy aside. He hasn't stolen. He hasn't cheated. He hasn't killed—which is, in fact, the sole reason he's here now, sprawled flat on chilly concrete, squinting dizzily at the pair of shoes planted in front of him.

"Hey, you," says God. "Can you hear me?"

Oliver makes a noise that he thinks sounds affirmative. He blinks a few times to bring the shoes more into focus. They're Doc Martens, the low ones with a little buckle. Mary Janes, he thinks they're called. Not like the stompy boots that he wears.

Wait. Boot, singular. His left foot is suspiciously cold.

"Oh, fuck me," he groans.

"No, thank you," says God, rather pleasantly. She walks out of Oliver's limited field of vision and then returns to set the wayward shoe down in front of him. "There. Do you think you can sit?"

In lieu of a response, Oliver presses a hand against the asphalt and pushes himself up. It's slow, painstaking business—too fast, and his vision starts to darken again, flimmering with all the static of an old TV. He manages, though, and ends up sitting somewhat upright, elbows braced on his knees as he takes in the frame towering above him.

God is a curvy white girl who looks not much older than him. Aside from her Mary Janes, she's wearing a cropped top with pink and green stripes and a pair of distressed mum jeans. Her hair is bleached an unnatural white, reaching just past her chin. None of this matters—Oliver just needs to catalogue what he's seeing so he can make sense of why the fuck he's seeing anything at all.

Letting his head loll back, he squints up at her and says: "I didn't know God shopped at Primark."

"These are thrifted!" comes the vaguely offended response. "Also, I'm not God. If He exists, I think He has better things to do. No offense."

Oliver shrugs as if to say Fair enough.

"My name is Dana. I'm here to initiate you into our program."

Closing his eyes, Oliver shakes his head. None of this makes any sense. He must've fallen asleep in the library again. Any moment now, he's going to wake up surrounded by Brontës and Whitmans and drive home to have dinner with Gabby and Daniel. He just needs to—

"I know you're probably confused." Dana's voice takes on a gentler tone. "You died. You can't see your physical body right now; I didn't want you to have to witness it, although I can show it to you if you feel it would bring you closure. If not, it will reappear once we are gone."

When Oliver doesn't react, she slowly sinks to the ground next to him, cross-legged like him. Her knee presses against his. "Oliver. Can you open your eyes?"

Startled by the sound of his name, Oliver complies. Now that Dana doesn't fill his entire vision, he can see what's been hidden behind her. Lucretia—beautiful, invincible Lucretia—is wrapped around a tree, her metal frame glinting in the sickly yellow light of the nearby streetlamp. He waits for a physical reaction—for his stomach to lurch or his heartbeat to trip—but there's nothing. He can't say he particularly enjoys the sudden stillness in his chest.

"I'm really dead, aren't I," he whispers.

"Yes," Dana confirms.

Oliver sucks in a deep, unnecessary breath, hands moving to brush his hair behind his ears. His helmet has ended up at the side of the road, several feet away from where he woke up.