“Hello? Hello? Mr. Lawrence? Hello?” a woman’s voice said.

 

Mr. Lawrence didn’t speak. He was sitting in a black leather chair in front of a mahogany desk. A young woman of around 30 years spoke to him from behind the desk. The rest of the room was white, but there were no visible walls or ceiling.

 

“Mr. Lawrence?”

 

“I was at the hospital. My wife…” His voice trailed off.

 

“I’m afraid you’ve passed away.”

 

“Is this heaven?”

 

“Not quite. I pulled you into a program I developed that provides you with an optimal afterlife. If you can provide sufficient payment for my services, you can spend eternity however you’d like.”

 

Mr. Lawrence stood up and looked at his arms. “I feel great. And my skin looks so good. Am I young?”

 

“Yes, Mr. Lawrence. I like to bring people in at age 25. Of course, you can choose any age you’d like. But most people like to be young. I’m going to…”

 

“I could run a marathon!” Mr. Lawrence interrupted. “I was on that ventilator for so long.” He seemed to remember his death and sat down slowly.

 

“Yes, well, if you’d like to run a marathon, that is certainly an option. I’m going to give you a two day free trial. Try it out. If you like it, think of ideas on how I can get payment from the living. Let me get you the orb.”

 

The woman reached into a drawer behind the desk and pulled out a glistening glass ball. She handed it to Mr. Lawrence. It looked like heavy, leaded glass with a white flame inside, but it felt like a gust of wind on his hand.

 

“What do I do with this?”

 

“Think carefully about the surroundings that you want to see. Think of the people you want to be with or the food you want to eat. Really, anything you want can appear before you. You can experience anything.” She smiled politely, indicating the conversation was over.

 

“This doesn’t make sense,” Mr. Lawrence said, suddenly belligerent. “I’ve never heard of this type of service!”

 

The woman sighed and cradled her head in her hands. “I need to create a brochure,” she mumbled to herself. “Let me put it simply. Every one of us has a unique biological code. In non-scientific terms, we could call it the soul. I connected a device to your hospital monitor to record your vital signs, breathing rhythm, blood work, everything. Imagine each of those data points as a square on a Rubik's cube. Everyone has a different configuration. I just needed to reconstruct your configuration, and here you are.”

 

“That doesn’t sound possible.”

 

“Well, Mr. Lawrence, you are here. Right now. We can continue debating that fact or we can move on to better things. Take the orb, and I’ll see you in two days.”

 

The woman disappeared. Mr. Lawrence looked at the orb in his hand. He remembered his wife at age 25. He was getting his PhD at the time, and they had taken a trip to Kennebunkport for the weekend.

 

Suddenly, he felt the cool Atlantic water on his feet. He was sitting on a dock next to his young wife. She was telling a story about a squirrel. He felt warmth and love radiating from his body.

 

He spent the next two days exploring his past with family and friends. While at one of his son’s little league baseball games, the orb sparkled brightly. He felt soft leather beneath his hands and was back in front of the mahogany desk.

 

“Mr. Lawrence! I hope you’ve enjoyed your last two days.” The woman seemed to be in a better mood.

 

“Can I get back? He was about to hit a home run.”

 

“We have business to take care of first. Have you given any thought about a source of funding?”

 

Mr. Lawrence scratched his head. “Is this legal?”

 

“Honestly, no. There’s no law regulating post-life services. If you don’t want the service, I can unplug you and you can take your chances on experiencing the real afterlife. Just say the word.”

 

“No! I’ll stay!”

 

“Then give me a source of funding. Do you have money hidden somewhere? Do you have information that would be valuable to someone?”

 

“No. Nothing I can think of.”

 

“What about secrets? Information that no one wants to get out?”

 

“Blackmail?”

“We need money, Mr. Lawrence. And we’re running out of time.”

“Okay, I have one thing,“ Mr. Lawrence said with great difficulty. In spite of his resurrected virtual self being in top condition, he showed clear signs of stress and anxiety. “My first son, he’s not mine. When I met my wife, she was pregnant and we agreed to say that I was his father.”

 

“I’m listening.”

 

“In my will, I left everything to my wife and three children. You could blackmail my wife. She would do anything to prevent my son from knowing I’m not his father. She will surely give you part of her inheritance.”

 

“That’s a good idea. I’ll give you another day as I check.”

 

* * *

 

“Well, did it work?” Mr. Lawrence asked the next day.

 

“Yes! I am happy to say it all worked out just fine, Mr. Lawrence,” the woman said. “I’m pleased to say that you can stay here indefinitely.”

 

“How much money did she give you?”

 

“It’s not important, Mr. Lawrence.”

 

“Tell me!”

 

The woman shook her head, exasperated. “Based on what you told me about your oldest son, I did some checking. It turns out that you're not the father of any of your sons. None of your sons wanted to be left out of the will, so I blackmailed them, too.”

 

Mr. Lawrence started to scream.

 

“Enjoy your afterlife,” the woman said.

 

Mr. Lawrence and the orb vanished.