“Whoa! I thought I died!”

 

“You did,” replied a voice.

 

Rick looked around the room but didn’t see the source of the voice. He saw only a battered metal chair and four gray walls, and he feared the worst. “So this is hell? Heaven?” he asked. Bright white light flooded the spacious room, giving him meager hope it might be the latter.

 

“Just a temporary space while you consider my offer.”

 

“Offer? Are you God?”

 

“I’m administering this simulation for my research paper, but I suppose you can call me God for the sake of simplicity.”

 

“You betcha, God.” The chair clanked as he sat down.

 

“I have a few questions. Do you feel you lived a fulfilling life?”

 

“Naw. I was a crappy partner, so my wife left me and I never formed a lasting relationship after that. Worked hard at my career, but I wasn’t clever enough or charismatic enough to make it very far. And—”

 

“Alright, alright. I can access all that info in the database. I’m God, remember?”

 

God seemed nerdier and less agreeable than he had imagined. “So why the questions?”

 

“Subjects need to briefly confirm their lack of fulfillment in their own words. It’s just a requirement for this psychology paper.” An exasperated sigh shook the room. “Anyway, you have two options. Option one is: you can go back and relive your life starting at any point you choose while retaining all your current memories.”

 

“Wow! That’s possible?”

 

“Of course. Why do you think so many billionaires exist on your planet?”

 

“Then how come I’ve never heard anything about it?”

 

“The single unbreakable rule is you can’t let anyone know you have memories of your prior life.”

 

“What happens if I break it?” He pursed his lips and tried not to smile.

 

“I just said it’s unbreakable. Do you want to test me?” God’s voice rose two notches on the volume scale.

 

“No way. Don’t tell anyone. Got it. What’s option two?”

 

“You can cease to exist.”

 

Rick laughed, but then realized God didn’t seem to be the type to joke around. “Not much of a choice,” he said.

 

“My study aims to revolutionize our understanding of fulfillment by exploring people’s life choices when they receive a second chance. I won’t waste processing power simulating non-participants.”

 

“What if I still die unfulfilled this time? Do I get to try again?” He maintained a playful tone and an innocent expression, but he was brimming with ideas.

 

“Sure. Can you make a decision now?” God sounded impatient.

 

“I’ll do the reliving thing.” He felt like a kid shipping off for college, which was exactly where and when he intended to go.

 

“Excellent.”

 

* * *

 

“I’m back.”

 

“You again?”

 

“Good to see you too, God.” Rick plopped down on the familiar metal chair.

 

“Why are you back so soon?”

 

“Lots of drugs, toxic relationships, overeating, thrill-seeking, and blacking out in strip clubs. Ended up dying in an unsanctioned jetpack-powered skydive.”

 

“So I see. But why?”

 

“No big deal. I knew if I died unfulfilled, I could just relive it again.” He leaned back, cracking a smile. “Another ride, please.”

 

“Hmm. Nice attempt to game the system, but it doesn’t work like that.”

 

“Wait. What?” Rick leapt to his feet. “If I understand what you’re implying, I’m about to feel mighty unfulfilled right now.”

 

“You chose a hedonistic life, but that doesn’t mean you were unfulfilled. Your subconscious defined fulfillment in accordance with that twisted thinking, and thus you attained it. It’s a pretty nifty and unexpected result. I actually might be able to secure funding for a new sim to explore this further.”

 

Rick scurried around the room looking for an exit, but he soon realized there was none. “Hey… That’s a good idea. You know who’d be the perfect test subject for that? Me.”

 

The walls started to peel back, revealing an endless expanse of white.

 

“Sorry. New sim means new subjects and controls. Academic rules.” The lights blinked off. “Goodbye, Rick. I’ll be sure to acknowledge you in my paper.”