Without taking a step, Devon moved forward in line. It was an odd sensation, moving about as if she stood on some invisible conveyor belt. But then, being dead was odd. One moment she’d been speeding home to have it out with Zach, and the next she’d been sucked up by a white light and landed in a place without walls or substance. She thought maybe she’d been in line for an hour, maybe two, but that couldn’t be right. On a subconscious level, she knew there’d been a funeral, and she had been buried in her white suit. Four or five days must have passed since the accident, but how was that possible?

She thought of her little girl and got a weird feeling in her chest. It wasn’t really an ache, like when she’d been alive. It was more like a nice warm tingle that was filled with love and longing. What would become of her poor little Tiffany? Zach was a good father, when he was home. Which wasn’t often, and a girl needed her mother.

She moved once more and stood before a towering white desk in front of a pair of massive golden gates. “Finally,” she said through a sigh.

“Devon Zemaitis,” the man behind the desk spoke without opening his mouth or looking up from the scroll before him.

“Devon Hamilton-Zemaitis,” she corrected him.

He finally glanced up, and the white wispy clouds reflected in his blue eyes. Without expression he waved a hand, and an older woman appeared. She wore a severe bun and a lavender suit with gold buttons.

“Mrs. Highbanger?”

“Highbarger,” her sixth-grade teacher corrected.

“When did you die?”