I opened my eyes and spoke with the angel at the foot of my bed. He didn’t have wings or look like Brad Pitt. His name was Derek; originally from Basildon.

“What happened to me, Derek?”

“You’re dead,” he replied.

“How?” I asked, my voice catching in my throat.

“Car crash.”


“An hour ago. They tried reviving you. Your time of death was six-thirty.”

“So, I was on my way home from work then?”

“I suppose so,” Derek replied, not seeming to care one way or the other.

“Did they say what caused it?”

“You were texting someone, apparently.”