The first time I died, I forgot what had happened. Trauma, I guess. I just woke up on the slab in the morgue, and freaked out because I was stuck in a coffin-sized box with zero light. I pounded and screamed, but it must’ve been the middle of the night, because no one heard me. I beat the inside of that box until my fists were blue. At some point, I think I passed out.

Woke up when I heard noise, and I yelled until they pulled me out. That was a freakin’ awkward conversation. Me and the morgue lady were both yelling, asking questions that no one answered. Eventually we both threatened to call the police, but she actually had a phone, so she won that race.

When the cops showed, they straightened things out. First time they’ve ever been useful, in my book. Morgue lady wanted to book me for B&E on federal property, but the cops had me on file as dead by a mugging the night before. Stabbed through the heart, even. Checked the toe tag and everything.

If I hadn’t died again a week later, I might’ve gone on thinking it was a fluke.