There were no celestial choirs, no clouds, and not a single angel in sight; but there was a strange looking little man hunched over the gray metal desk that occupied the space between the gates. Small and wiry, in an ill-fitting brown flannel suit, he looked grim and harried, tapping away on a computer keyboard, his frown deepening with every stroke. His eyes were glued to
the screen and his head was bent to look over, instead of through, his gold wire bifocals. Poor guy, I had the same problem with mine no matter what prescription they gave me. It was so frustrating. Light from some unseen overhead source reflected on the bits of his bald scalp that peeked out boldly between the strands of his oh-so-sexy comb-over. He paid no attention to me whatsoever, bolstering my hope that this was all a dream.
Sometimes you have to die to figure out how to live!
Max’s Logan's insecurities have consumed her to the point that they have skewed her perceptions of people and circumstances. She has grown progressively more bitter, sarcastic, and solitary since her divorce and feels as though she has spent a lifetime getting the short end of the stick through no fault of her own; still she trudges on. Things can always get better, right? Of course, it’s hard to cultivate optimism when she finds herself dead; the victim of a D.I.E (Death in Error) caused by an overeager Grim Reaper in Training. She brokers a deal to be sent back to Earth as a temporary substitute for the Superintendent of Spiritual Impediment. Can a girl who can’t recognize her own problems rectify the issues of the living impaired? Or will concentrating on their issues give her a new perspective on her own?