“Why do you keep coming here?”

He didn't answer. I knew he wouldn't. He stared at the preacher, alert and attentive, the model of the perfect little Christian boy. I listened to the droning voice and wanted to sleep.

“You know the Bible's gotta be wrong,” I insisted. I never cared much for religion, especially not since I died. “I'm not in Heaven or Hell, am I? But hey, whatever – it's your afterlife.”

Afterwards, he confronted me in his room. Maybe the Bible didn't cover people like me, he argued. Maybe this was my Purgatory. And if he didn't go, his mom would worry.

And yet, as time went on, he made more and more excuses not to go – “I feel kinda sick,” or “I really need to finish my homework” – and little by little he stopped going altogether.