Free Exit Point by Laura Langston Page A

You took exit point two. You had written in your life contract that you’d hang on to exit point five. But the next two years of your life were gonna be tough. Tougher than anything you’d go through in the next sixty years. You thought it would be too hard, so you bailed. No surprise there, Logan. You always did take the easy way out.”
    Seeing Gran makes me feel better. But not in the way you might think. The thing is, I don’t believe in life after death. I figure when you’re dead, you’re history. But Hannah—she’s my girlfriend—Hannah thinks that when we die, we’re met by the dead people who loved us the most. Remembering this makes me feel way better. Gran loved us, I guess, in her own way. But she loved the horses and herself more. She wouldn’t waste her time sitting on heaven’s welcoming committee.
    “This is a dream, Gran. You don’t even look like you.”
    Gran snorts. “You think I liked looking old?” When I don’t answer, she adds, “Being dead has its advantages. I don’t need Oil of Olay anymore, plus I can have all the cigarettes I want. And there’s a race going on somewhere every day.”
    Yeah right. “If I was dead, I would have seen that white light everybody talks about.” Hannah had told me about that too.
    “You cheated yourself by leaving early. In more ways than one,” Gran tells me. “Dying by grape would have been less violent. Youwould have lived long enough to learn what you were supposed to learn. Then when you died, you would have gotten the whole she-bang. The tunnel, the light, maybe even an angel or two.” She clucks her tongue. “Even I got an angel, Logan. All you got was a massive boom, heat that melted your brain and then nothing.”
    Gran’s words jolt me. I remember. It wasn’t quite like that.
    It was a boom, a flash , melting heat and then nothing.
    Until now.
    “Holy crap.” I start to shake. “Am I really dead?”
    I might be in heaven but all hell is breaking loose. The tinkling wind-chime sounds grow louder; there’s a flurry of movement. Gran fades into the milk-glow sky. “Wait,” she cries, “I’m not finished with my grandson yet. There’s something else I need to tell him.”
    But the colors around me get stronger: zap, zap, zap. Hot, cold, sleepy. And the colors take Gran away.
    My whole body shakes. My stomach heaves. “What’s going on?” My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth; it’s hard to talk. “Where am I?” If I don’t sit up...if I don’t get something to drink...I’m gonna puke.
    Suddenly, there is an extra-large pop in my hand and I am upright. I struggle to adjust my eyes, to figure out where I am.
    This place is huge. Open to the sky, to the air. And there are beds. Lots and lots of beds. I peer into the haze. At least I think they’re beds. Before I can make sense of things, I see him sitting at the end of my bed. The guy who spoke to me earlier.
    “Hello, Logan.” His eyes—one green, the other blue—study me carefully.
    I’ve never met this guy before.
    Yet I know him.
    Tattoos crawl up his arms and meet below his neck. “I’m Wade.” He pushes frizzy brown hair back from his face, revealing two studs in his left ear.
    Wade? To me he’s Snakeman. And I’ve been dreaming of him since I was four years old.
    But I’ve never seen him in 3-D before. And I’ve never had him reach out and touch me like he does now.
    This isn’t looking good.
    Wade gestures to the pop. “Drink,” he says. “Your memorial service is about to start. You’re gonna need that to get through it.”

Chapter Two
    They put something in the pop.
    That must be why I feel majorly stoned and blank in the head.
    I sort of remember an accident. And being in a hospital talking to Wade. I remember him. But I can’t remember what we talked about. Or how I got from that round, white place to where I am now.
    Now is a church in Kent, Washington. When I was little, we used to come here at Christmas. I remember that.
    I sit beside