There’s fog all around me, smoky, wispy tendrils that form together to obscure my vision. I don’t know where I am, and the further I wade into the cloudy unknown, the less sure I am of whether I’m supposed to be here at all.

The last thing I remember was the steering wheel slipping from beneath my alcohol-lubricated hands and the blaring lights of another car. I must’ve crashed. But, that would mean that I’m dead … and that this is … heaven? That can’t be right. I can’t be dead. Where are the pearly white gates, the angels with halos of gold above their heads?

I think I see someone else, or at least the skeletal impression of a hand, and I start to run towards it, yelling for them to stop. But soon any remnant of them is gone, and I’m in an even darker fog. It’s like being in a storm before it strikes.

Is this how it all ends?