Last breath, last heartbeat, last moment of sunlight. Death happens every day, no big deal. It’s not. Paramedics crouch next to my body on a busy sidewalk.

“It’s done,” I say. “Nice try, boys”

Maybe they hear me since they call time of death. The blonde standing behind the paramedics, that's the girl I went on a date with earlier. I'm pretty certain she slipped something in my drink but you know, it doesn't matter.

It’s surprisingly normal, death is, except no one sees me. Just a stray glance my way but I am standing in front of the road sign—Main Street. A big breath in and yep, there it all is. Exhaust fumes, bad perfume, and sewer waft around me which is what the city smells like everyday I was alive. Totally normal except one small thing. Warmth spreads from my fingertips, to my palm, and slips around the back of my hand.

“Adam.”

The most spectacular being holds my hand. It’s tall, taller than the Main Street sign. Sunlight travels through it, iridescent yet solid. Its face makes my eyes water. I don’t know why though, since I can’t make out the details. Eyes? Yep. Color? Can’t tell. Smile? Not sure. It’s cloaked in white silk but even that changes in opaqueness with the sunlight trickling through the clouds decorating the blue sky above.

Clear my voice, that’s what I do first. “Yep?”

“I am Micha, Angel of Transition.” Its voice radiates from the entire angel. No lips move, not that I can tell if the angel even has lips. Micha pulls on my hand, though no fingers are wrapped around my skin. “We must discuss your journey here and then you may move forward.”

Sounds good. Move forward. Forward from the scene behind me is a good start. From the life I just left which let's be honest, I wasn't a standout, Grade-A, kind of person. The sun glints off the sign and forces my eyes shut. When they open, I’m seated on a stone bench at a park I’m quite familiar with—Gettysburg.

The stone is cool, sky’s overcast, and the crowd is nil. Just as I remember it, except my parents and my little brother aren’t with me. Neither is Pat. Micha stands before me, as tall as Lincoln was during the presentation we watched back when I was eight, except Micha isn’t dressed in black and doesn’t wear a top hat.

“Before you, will be questions.”

Nothing is before me, just so you know. Just Micha and an expanse of green field where one of the battles took place. Now that I think about it, where are the ghosts battling over and over again?

Micha glides towards me. The angel’s cloak wrinkles with legs moving underneath but the feet aren’t below. It places its palm against my forehead.

There it is—the lifeflash before my eyes.

That’s what we’ve all heard about, right? I see it all in my mind’s eye. It’s nice and pleasant and wonderful, even the dark parts. Bad parts. I’d mention them but who really cares? I’m here with the Angel of Transition, seeing Pat again. Getting my first job at the American Museum of Natural History. Playing frisbee golf with my brother. A gift of mums for mom because she loves alliteration and a whiskey shared with dad when I turned twenty-one. All of it is right here and I don’t miss it but I love it.

Micha takes its hand back. “Are you happy with your life?”

“Sure,” I say, sniffing. “Yes, I love it.”

“Good.” It takes a step back and raises its hands above its head. The angel’s arms fall at the speed of sound and with the boom, the sound wave knocks me backwards so much so, I fly through the air. The noise is deafening, ringing in my ears are the only thing I hear as I pass the tourist center, the parking lot, past a tree I carved my name in, and into a thick forest I saw from the backseat of my dad’s faded-red Ford Explorer.

I stop as quickly as I started, mid-air, arms and legs dangling around like gravity isn’t real and maybe it’s not—it’s a theory afterall. Cold air touches my ankles and creeps up my legs. I’m above a black hole—dark star as John Michell in the eighteenth century said and I only know this because our museum hosted a special lecture on it last year. Ignorance is bliss and I wish I was ignorant of black holes right now. Another blink of my eyes and my body is consumed it freezing air. When they open, I’m on the ground, white and gray gravel beneath my feet. Not so bad of a black hole trip, I’d say.

Dew glistens on knee-high green grass lining the driveway. Wooden fence posts and tall pine trees lead the way towards my old house, the one I grew up in. It’s a log cabin with a stone cottage addition tacked on the side. The red maple is exactly the same. Long limbs tower over the cottage and an old rope swing moves with the gentle breeze the swirls about the smell of cut grass and pine.

No one is here, which makes sense. But a noise catches my ear, and I know I’m not alone. Breaths are heavy and gravel crunches.

“Hey, Pat,” I say, a smile creeping across my lips.

“Adam,” he says, “glad to see you. Thought your mom would come first. Lady is big, ya know?”

“Astute observation.” I chuckle under my breath. “Just me though.”

“So, what questions ya have?” He points towards a bird flying from the maple. “I had a lot but it was cleared up pretty quick. But I’m here to greet and meet ya. So, what can I answer?”

“Well,” I say, “I met my first angel, so that’s neat.”

My brother and I used to swing back and forth on that swing. A flicker of something pulls at my heart. Never been good at naming emotions, just naming dinosaurs and fitting fossils together to put on display.

“Does everything die, Pat?”

“Humans, animals, plants,” he says, “all that stuff. It comes down from the Old World and when the souls are ready, they go back up.” He gestures to the blue and green ball in the sky, with the sun gleaming from behind it. “Would you like to see your friends or ancestors or something?”

“How long do I stay here?”

“However long ya want, pal. You go back to the Old World when you’re ready.”

“So,” I say, “if everything goes back up to the Old World, why aren’t dinosaurs on Earth?”

Pat sits on the gravel and I join him. “Humans are souls. They’re created from matter by the Big Great Beings. Animals and plants are different. They’re created from one single idea and kissed with energy. Energy doesn’t go back up to the Old World but souls do and you,” he leans against me, “are a soul and must go back up. But when you’re ready. Take your time.”

“That’s why dinosaurs haven’t gone back up then?”

Pat stares at me. His deep brown eyes, something I forgot I missed until this moment. I’d visit an old friend or two or spend time with my ancestors but I guess, if I have all the time I want before I head back to the Old World, then I want to do something that means the world to me. Something that answers my entire life’s calling. Something that validates my entire thirty-eight years up there.

“How do I go see the dinosaurs?”

He huffs. “I don’t know.” Pat’s brown hairs move in the breeze and a whiff of lilac from the garden behind the house makes it to us. “Maybe walk towards the setting Earth? Maybe they’re that way.”

“Is it dangerous here? Heaven, I mean?” A brown cricket hops on my leg. I’ve always wanted to touch one without it flittering away—” in my hand and after a moment, I realize, it’s not as great as I thought it’d be. I let it down and it crawls onto a blade of grass.

“Dangerous? Nah, pal. I wouldn’t say that. I’d say more like—” his head turns with a blue jay swooping across the driveway. “Like, interesting. That’s how I describe it. There’s a mountain towards the setting Earth and there are a lot of dinosaur books around there.”

“Dinosaur books? I want real life dinosaurs, Pat.”

“I hear ya. Give that place a go first ‘cause I heard those souls have a passion for them. They’ll tell ya where to go I bet. But when you’re done, get back here, alright?”

I stand and brush the dust from my pants but guess what? No dust to brush off. That’s what I’ll do though—head towards the setting Earth with the sun bright behind it. Head towards the dinosaur book mountain. Find myself a dinosaur and satisfy my lifelong question of what they look like—truly looked like. The thought puts butterflies in my stomach. One step forward and then another, off to become a true paleontologist.

“Hey,” Pat says, “hey I got a question for ya.” He gets to his feet, a lot better than he used to.

“Shoot, buddy.”

“Why’d you name me Pat?”

“Because I pat your head. I don’t know Pat,” I say, “I was like five.”

He wags his tail, fur shifting with the light reflection. “I’d come with but I got to greet everyone when they come down. Hey,” he says, “by the time they get here, you’ll probably have found a dinosaur or something.” He watches a cardinal land in the maple. “I’d like to hear about it when ya get back, like old times.”

Yeah, those old times. Five years old and Pat humoring me while I showed him my favorite pictures from my dinosaur books. “Of course, Pat.”

Turns out, today wasn’t my last breath or last heartbeat or last moment of sunlight. The heat from my breath touches the back of my wrist, while I wipe a hint of a tear away. My heartbeat, that’s what pulses when I think about my brother and I on the rope swing. The sunlight, it warms my skin while I walk down the driveway.

Death happens every day, no big deal. It’s not. But dinosaurs are and I’m going to find where they’re at.