Twenty 

     We sit. Bobby and three other angels take spots behind us. Michael the Archangel walks around in front of his desk and sits back against it. We're offered tea, which I accept. Marie asks for water. Then I decide to ask about something I've wondered about the whole time I've been dead.
     "We're dead," I say. "how are we drinking tea or anything else?"
     The Archangel looks calmly at me for several seconds. He seems to come to a decision and leans slightly back, clasping his hands again but this time loosely in front of him.
     "When I designed this existence, I decided I might want tea," he says. "The subroutine applies to everyone, of course."
     When...

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