"We prefer to call it Haven," said the old man, finally clipping the stylus to the stone tablet.

"Seriously? The afterlife is an RPG?"

He chuckled. "Sloth is sin, and all that. Focus testing indicates new residents need to apply themselves. Maintain goals. Keep busy, keep motivated. Otherwise they might fall into an irreversible depression loop. Let's get started, shall we?"

He motioned me to a stool that wasn't there before. The plain white wood sat flush with a bare table. The man sat on a similar stool on the opposite side and placed his tablet on its edge. It sat at an angle facing him, suspended on nothing at all.

In most circumstances I wouldn't have sat so easily, but I was desperate to feel something solid. The stool and table gave me something to whiten my knuckles against.

"Who are you?" I asked.

The old man smiled and motioned upward. When I stared blankly, he said, "Look above my head."

I frowned. "What, the motivational cat poster?"

"The what?" He twisted around and grumbled. "No, no." He waved his hand and the poster disappeared before my eyes. "Everyone's a practical joker these days. Whatever happened to being proud of a job well done?"

I didn't answer the rhetorical question and he shook off the malaise.

"What I meant was look at the space above my head inquisitively."

I was still shaken from seeing the poster disappear. If I couldn't rely on the inspiring wisdom of kittens, what could I rely on? But I took a breath and focused on the empty area above his head.

Gold letters faded in: [Saint Peter].

"I know," he said. "It's a bit dramatic, but fitting. Don't worry, there's no true judgment here."

My gaze sagged down to his face. I couldn't really focus on his words anymore. As the gold name above his head faded away, I could only hang my jaw in shock.

"Listen," said Saint Peter, "this is my job. I welcome new residents to Haven. Help them get started. Give them a shoulder to lean on." He scratched his white beard and waited until I was lucid. "My best advice to you is this: Don't overthink things. Take your new world in slowly, one step at a time. Follow our instructions and keep an open, active mind about things. I'm sure you still believe this is all a bizarre dream. If so, don't waste it moping. Be carefree and enjoy the experience."

I nodded absently. Didn't see the harm in that.

"Now," he said, sitting up straight, "let me answer some of your questions. First off, this is a limited, closed beta application. This isn't a public utility yet, so count yourself lucky. According to these records, your company was acquired by Kablammy, which makes you an employee. One of us. As such, your insurance plan has been upgraded."

"I didn't ask for that."

"Standard procedure with HMOs. You take what they give. But you're right, of course. We require your consent."

I scoffed.

"Haven is just an option. I mean that. If you refuse consent we can part ways and delete you right now."

"And then what? I'll be a vegetable in a hospital bed somewhere?"

He pressed his lips solemnly together. "No, Tod. You'll be dead."

I didn't correct him this time.

"You're not hooked into a VR unit. You've literally been uploaded. Your entire being—your memories, thoughts, and desires—are a collection of ones and zeroes. Your reality is digital now. As a programmer, I'm sure you can understand that, even if you can't wrap your head around it. But we still need your consent."

I swallowed, but my virtual mouth was dry. "It sounds like I'm at your mercy no matter what I do."

"Not true," said Saint Peter. "Haven is what we call a free system. Without the ability for residents to log off, it's imperative we give everyone autonomy. Once you accept, you'll become a permanent part of the simulation. Not even we would have the ability to delete you. Your profile is encrypted and redundantly copied across multiple servers." He paused to give his next declaration weight. "Once you enter Haven, you have eternal life. The Bible got that part right, anyway."

"Great," I said, deciding lucid dreams were more insane than fun. "I consent. Let's get on with it."

He nodded and spun the tablet around. Even though it was made of solid stone, the surface layer resembled an LCD screen. An empty line and checkbox awaited my entry. I took the stylus and filled them in.

"Debit or credit," I joked.

He smiled. "I know you weren't asking, but beta access confers you 100% insurance coverage. You're literally set for life. Now there's just one more thing." He spun the tablet around, swiped a few times with his finger, and faced it at me again.

I stared at the screen without humor. "Terms of service."