The desk clerk looked up at him with serious eyes, pen poised over a blank page in the logbook. “Name?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Your name, sir?”
“Don’t you know? Know everything? I mean, if I am where I think I am.” There were no visual clues to help him, nothing but white space everywhere. Looking down seemed unwise.
The clerk sighed. “A formality, sir. Some people experience a great deal of confusion at this time. We must ensure that you’re clear-headed before we can proceed.”
He thought for a moment, running a hand through his short, grey curls until it came to him. “Jim.” A pause. “I died of a heart attack in the damned bathtub. Laid there for three days. I didn’t think you got to go to heaven for that kinda shit!”
“Is that your wish, sir?”
“What?”
“Here at Central Processing, we will record your destination before sending you onward, but the matter of where you go is up to you. Please understand that this choice is binding.”
“What do most people pick?”
“Whatever they think they deserve.”