He'd been wandering this street for... two days? Three? He wasnt sure anymore. A car. Something about a car. He was in a car -- that's it. In a car, driving down this road, somewhere in a large city whose name he no longer remembered. And that was odd, since he'd lived in it all his life. But now it was just this hole in the web of his memory, as though something had taken up a small calibre pistol and shot right through it. But a car -- he was pretty certain about the car. A Halloween party! He was with some friends on his way to a Halloween party... and then they were gone -- somewhere. And the car with them. It had to have gone — somewhere — because it was no longer there. And that made sense. Somehow. But the street didnt: never changing, not even as the hours passed and even with what should have been dawn that never was. Perpetual twilight. And nary a soul: just sidewalk and dusty tarmc and faded buildings whose times had long passed. Okay, if I'm indeed dead, isnt there supposed to be a tunnel of light or something? "That's making a rather huge assumption." A voice, from the shadows... "See, it all depends on your point of view." "What does?" There was a genial laugh. "Whether or not you're dead. You're not, of course. Much as you may want to think you are. I gather it's comforting to assume that. But you're not. This is just... well, a sort of testing place." "Test?" "Well, of course. You never get the grand prize without answering the skill testing question, you know. And that's where they always trick you up, of course -- it's some mathematical equation that you're so used to that you dont even think about the fact that you're misreading it. And you make a mistake -- and poof!: goodbye, Grand Prize." "So what's the Grand Prize here?" "Oh. Well… Life, of course. In a manner of speaking. And no, the consolation prize isnt death, in case you're asking." "There's no real alternative." The voice laughed again. "Well, see, it all -- " " -- depends on my point of view. Got that already. So what's the test?" "Ah. You're in it right now." "In it? In what?" There was a buzzer somewhere, distant, echoing among the metal and concrete buildings before drifting into silence. "Oops. Sorry. You lose." "Lose what?? Y'know, this is just lame. If you cant be specific about the game, how do I know how to play it?" he voice seemed to sigh. "You assume there are rules..." "Arent there?" "... and this is precisely why you lost. But thanks for playing." The man's voice was already becoming distant. 'Hey, wait up a sec. If there are no rules, then bingo, I've won." "How do you figure that?" "Because I have. So let's see that Grand Prize." The voice returned, chuckling. "That's good." "Well?" ".... Well, you are being a good sport about this and all. I supposed we could arrange something. Pick a door." "... You have got to be kidding me." "I beg your pardon?" "My fate rests on which door I choose? Who runs this operation, Frank Stockton? Okay, fine -- this one." A dusty lightbulb clicked on: a flight of rattled old stairs, ascending into musty shadows. "Ah. An excellent choice. Now, go upstairs. There's an apartment on the second floor. Go in, and you'll find your lovely parting gift." "What is it?" "You'll find out when you get there, right?" The man looked at the stairs for a long time. "Is there a problem?" "Nope." He turned and walked away, to another building to his right. The voice seemed suddenly nervous. "What — ?" The man looked up, grinning, as he shrugged his shoulders. "My rules, remember?" Without the slightest hesitation, he went to the door on the right — and opened it.