The Pastor awoke in a waiting room. Below him, a simple cushioned chair with a plain floral design on it padded behind. The room was white, sterile, empty. He was alone. The low hum of old office lights, giving off a sickly yellowish glow to the room. He approached the counter and rung the bell. Yet Nobody came.  

“Hello?” 

The pastor looked into the office. The desks looked empty, as if they hadn’t been touched in years, ornamented with cobwebs that didn’t even seem to have any spiders. He was alone.  

The Pastor was a religious man, he always went to church every Sunday, never swore, had a big family. He was a servant to God, and God alone. Right up until they found the tumor in his heart, and he met his maker. Now he was here though, he was alone, he couldn’t find the one he had devoted his life to. His breath began to get shaky; he turned his hands over in themselves in the nervous way his father used to. He didn’t know what was happening. Shouldn’t there be pearly gates and angels like his father would tell him? Wasn’t St. Peter supposed to call his name? Was there a mistake? He should be there, not here. Not in this damn yellow room. 

He sighed and brought himself back down. 

The pastor exited the room. He found himself suddenly in a park on an overcast sky. The park had familiarity to him, like something he saw on a postcard, yet he couldn’t place. The wind was cold, almost bitter, a far cry from the southern air he had lived his life in.  

Upon a park bench, he found an old man lying there, obviously homeless, trying to sleep with newspapers across his back. He looked sickly, famished. Yet as the Pastor got closer to him the old man became younger before his eyes. He got taller, hair fuller and blacker, his skin returned to the olive tone it must have had when he was young. His muscles filled out the tattered clothes he was wearing.  

“Hello? Excuse me sir, do you know where I am?” The Pastor’s tone was short, almost condescending, even in death he had to deal with the streets were littered with the homeless.  

“Hi Abraham.” The Old, I guess now Young Man said. “Just give me a few more minutes.” His speech had a notable middle eastern accent.  

“How did you know my name?” The Pastor said, taken aback. 

“I know everyone’s name” said the homeless man. 

And so, he sat with the homeless man for what seemed to be both multiple days and only a few hours. For time was only a suggestion to them now that they were dead. Eventually, both drifting into sleep.