Henry died on April 26, leaving behind a pregnant wife, two-year-old son, and $50,000 in debt.

As Henry’s spirit left his body, the last thing he noticed was his neck: how it was crooked at an awkward angle with shards of window glass sticking out, blood running down his chest.

Henry’s spirit floated out of his car, into the sky, past the skyscrapers, clouds and the sun, until he came face to face with God.

“Where the hell am I?” Henry slurred.

“You are dead,” God said.

“What do you mean, I’m dead? I was driving when I…” He paused.

“You mean I died there? Off the road?”

“That’s right,” God said.

Henry paused, sobering up. He was 41, and though he had known people who had died younger, he always expected to reach at least 90. The realisation that his hopes and dreams would never transpire suddenly overwhelmed him with regret.

“Don’t worry too much,” God said. “It was a quick and painless death. Plus, you had metastatic prostate cancer growing inside you – explains your back pain. Accidents suck, but all things considered it wasn’t too bad.”

Henry went into a deep think. He could see Earth in the near distance, the size of a golf ball. Surrounding him was a vast space of void with no sound to be heard.

“So what happens now?” Henry asked. “Do I go to hell or something?”

“Nope,” God replied. “That only applies if you have heard the gospel, which you haven’t. My job is to reincarnate you.”

“Oh.”

“So what do you think?”

“What do you mean what do I think?”

“Do you think you have lived a good life? You know, for your reincarnation and all.”

“Oh right. Yeah,” Henry said, straightening up. “I have. You know, I treat everyone with respect. Pay my taxes and have never been in jail. Volunteer here and there, have never beat my kid and stuff.”

God stared at Henry and waited for him to continue. When nothing more was said, God cleared his throat.

“Henry,” God began. “You were driving drunk tonight to sleep with that girl from work, Claudia remember? How can you say you respect everyone when you have a wife?”

Henry said nothing.

“And even though you’ve never beaten your son, you neglect him for your gambling and alcohol addiction. He has even started to resent and fear you. Do you even know his birthday?”

Henry realised he did not.

“So what makes you think you have lived a good life?”

Henry looked back on his life and realised that God was right. He had not lived a good life. He had squandered opportunities, betrayed the few people who loved him, and took far more than he gave. At that moment, he looked back down on Earth and saw the few people who mourned for his life, not for what it had been, but what it could have been.

He saw his parents toiling as immigrants, hoping for their children to have a good life. He saw his wife, who believed in him more than any person should have. He saw the moment she found out she was pregnant and the dreams she put on hold for the baby, despite feeling unprepared for motherhood. He saw his few coworkers who appreciated his talents but hated his erratic behaviour more each day. With time, all these people would leave him. With time, he would have nobody left.

Henry wished for nothing more than to be able to go back and change it all.

“Please give me a second chance,” Henry cried. “I can do better.”

“Too late for that,” God replied. “I think you deserve nothing better than a termite.”

“No, please God, I promise.”

God had a glint in His eye. “Off you go.”

---

Henry woke up tying his shoelace.

“Where are you going, honey?”

The voice, as well as the surroundings, were familiar. His leather shoes, the neatly furnished home, the smell of roasted pork wafting in the air. It couldn’t be. It felt like… home.

He hurriedly took out his phone and checked the date. April 26. The day of his death.

“Are you going out to the pub again?”

As he turned, he came face to face with his wife. And when he saw her, he shuttered at her beauty. She certainly had more wrinkles than when he had first met her, but she was still a beautiful person. She wore an apron and gave a tired but kind smile. She had tolerated far more than any woman should have but was now close to her breaking point.

Behind her, a small head poked out. He almost did not recognise the boy if not for the eyes which shared his tint of green but now bled contempt.  Henry prayed it was not too late to repair.

“No,” Henry said, taking them both in his arms. “I am staying home tonight.” And he wept.