What if you could know you’re better than someone else? Not better in one small way — a better lover, listener, cooker of pasta, writer of poems — but entirely, absolutely better? What if you have to choose life for one of you, for the other, death? And what if, after long, careful, anguished thought — because, after all, you’re the better person — you make the right choice? And what if, later, when you die, there really is heaven and God and perfection isn’t boring but endlessly interesting, satisfying, a challenge you only just meet — like life, but the rules work? And what if one day — it’s raining or bright, perfect either way — God takes you aside and you sit down with a favorite drink, hot or cold depending on the weather, in your throat its ideal mate of thirst, and God smiles, lays on your hand a huge scarred paw, says That day you chose the better person? Well, you were wrong. But stay as long as you want — we like having you here. And patting your hand God rises, eyes already gone in that galactic reach, looking for the next fool who, between heaven and hell, expected a difference.