I’m behind the espresso bar when the milk steamer backs up, and the pressure goes critical. The thing is, it’s Pumpkin Spice Latte season.

I cannot even describe to you the horror of being showered in pumpkin spice topping and milk froth while simultaneously having your chest blown apart by superheated metal shrapnel.

It’s unclear which is more psychologically damaging.

It turns out that, in these times of life-threatening crisis, you do indeed let out a primal scream on instinct. I can’t stop myself. But it also happens that my primal scream is the highest-pitched, whiniest, most utterly pathetic noise my body is capable of making at maximum volume,

For fucks sake, I don’t scream like a girl. I scream like a very, very sad baby goat.

Time slows down in my last moments, and I spend them hoping that anyone who heard Little Goatie McPumpkin-Spice was also caught in the explosion. I feel like there’s a chance, maybe not a great one, but a chance that what just happened was erased from history.

Or maybe it will be my legacy.

At least it’s a quick death, albeit a confusing one. On the one hand, irreconcilable pain. On the other, the irresistible aromas of espresso beans, cinnamon, sweet ginger, nutmeg, and cloves.

The next thing I know, things get really dark and humid. The pain turns to tingling. Then it kind of feels like I’ve been sitting in a bathtub with the lights off for a long time, and the water’s gone cold, only I’m standing, and there’s light, and I’m dry.

The first time you die and become a ghost is weird, let me tell you. Space-time bends. It’s very disorienting.

“Reincarnation Department! Please hold,” a flamboyant voice chirps behind me.

Now I’m standing in ankle-high fog in the bright sun. Things are changing around me pretty fast at this point.

I turn to see a desk—where there was none—out alone in a plane of infinite space. Behind it, a guy with a pompadour punches flashing buttons with his pinkie on a large console. He’s wearing a headset with a mic—not a gamer style one—but one of those ultra-thin, delicate ones that corporate types use for teleconferencing.

Spread out in front of him are plastic bins of different colors, each somewhat filled with a stack of paper. Every few seconds, a couple more sheets of paper drop out of a hole in the sky into one of the bins.

“Umm, hello?” I wave at him.

He smiles politely, points to the headphones, then makes his hand into a mouth shape and gives the universal sign for this person won’t shut the fuck up, blah blah blah blah blah.

“Am I dead?” I whisper, approaching the desk. I point to myself, just in case he’s confused about who I’m referring to.

The guy points more firmly at his headphones, bulges his eyes, then swivels his chair to the side. He puts his feet up on the corner of his desk.

Power move, huh? I see how it is. Well, if you won’t help me, I’ll just help myself.

I grab one of the papers in his tray and give it a quick read.

Angela Mary Connolly

Age: 41

Reality: 322C

Cause of Death: Incident involving a highlighter and a pair of mittens

Notes:

In her last rotation, Angela lacked courage and socialized very poorly with other women, culminating in the highlighter accident. Recommend e-1337 to teach her the meaning of female camaraderie in an adventure setting. (Also, e-1337 generally lacks office supplies)

Reincarnation Status: Approved

Angela, how? With a highlighter? But it’s the softest of all writing implements.

“Yes, sir, and turn up the peanut allergy even more. Yes, understood. Yes, I know they’re technically legumes, sir. You’ve told me before. You are indeed wicked, sir.” The guy presses a red button on his console, turns slowly to me, and gives me a big, fake smile full of pearl-white teeth.

I take the opportunity to jump in. “I was wondering if you might send me back. See, I’m still fairly young. I got my whole life ahead of me, and there’s this girl, she’s a cheerleader and—”

“Look, I’ve heard it all before, so let’s make this quick. Busy, busy! Your world, Reality 151B has reached the three strikes limit. Your world’s test scores are really below the benchmark—bottom ten percentile. I’m sorry, but you died. You won’t be allowed back to 151B. Your Earth is a shitshow, I’m afraid. Everyone’s on their last life. We’re shutting it down.”

“I mean, can you rewind time or something—“

“Good news is that we have multiple new realities in beta testing right now. The boss upstairs has been working on this new idea lately. Gamification, he calls it. Says the reason realities keep failing is because people aren’t motivated enough to succeed.”

“The boss upstairs? You mean, God?”

The phone starts lighting up again, all the lines flashing at once.

“As I was saying, busy, busy! So, if you can just sign on the bottom of your voucher, please, you can claim your reincarnation and be on your way.” He hands me a feather quill dipped with ink. “Quickly now. You know how it is. All-seeing. Always watching.” He points into the air and then at the paper.

“It’s not too late to lose your second chance privilege. Sign please!”

I admit I was a little overwhelmed. I have this thing where if I feel like I’m imposing on someone or upsetting them, it makes me uncomfortable. I need to get out of the situation. So I look down at the paper that clearly reads Angela Mary Connolly at the top, sign it anyway, and hand it back.

The man hits a few buttons and numbers on his console. A cylindrical chamber emerges from the foggy ground nearby, its doors swooshing open with the hiss of pneumatic pumps.

“Very good. Now, take the elevator back down, and soon you’ll forget any of this happened. Oh, and have a nice life.”

“You too,” I say, stepping in.