Felix Marr died because he leaned backward in a chair to prove a point about balance.

In the interests of accuracy, the point itself had been excellent. The chair, however, had chosen ideology over engineering. Felix tipped, struck the radiator with the back of his head, and achieved the sort of abrupt silence that only ever seems impressive to other people in the room.

The last thing he heard on Earth was his friend Colin saying, with genuine irritation, "Oh, come on, Felix, that's theatrical."

The first thing he heard afterward was, "Table seven pays even money if he complains immediately."

Felix opened his eyes to find himself seated at a green baize desk in a room the size of a railway terminal and twice as bureaucratic. Brass fans turned lazily under a ceiling painted with clouds that looked unionized. Tall counters ringed the hall beneath signs reading CAUSES, CONSEQUENCES, APPEALS, and REASSESSMENT FOLLOWING COMEDIC FATALITIES.

At the next desk, a woman in half-moon spectacles was updating a ledger with the grave expression of someone recording the collapse of empires instead of one fool who had lost an argument with furniture.

"Excuse me," Felix said. "I'm not staying."

The woman stamped a form without looking up. "Almost nobody says 'thank goodness, the paperwork.'"

"No, listen, there must be a mistake. I was only leaning."

"Everybody is only something," she said. "Only crossing the road. Only adjusting the chandelier. Only seeing whether the badger was friendly."

She lifted the file at last and peered over her glasses.

"Felix Marr. Thirty-four. Cause of death: self-administered momentum during conversational showing-off. Well within the normal range."

"I object to the wording."

"Take it up with Classification. Window twelve."

Felix looked toward window twelve, where a man made entirely of smoke was arguing that a harpsichord should not legally count as falling masonry.

"On second thought," Felix said, "I object less."

The woman flipped a page. "You are expected in Adjudication Annex B. You've been named in a wager."

"A what?"

"A wager." She frowned at the file. "Moderately impious. Potentially educational. I wouldn't get your hopes up, but I would keep them nearby."

This was how Felix came to be escorted through a set of velvet doors into a chamber resembling a magistrate's court designed by a music hall comedian. Tiered benches rose on either side, crowded with spectators in varying degrees of transparency. At the far end, beneath a carved stone clock with no hands, sat three officials in robes the color of old receipts.

Between them stood a man Felix recognized instantly.

"Uncle Bernard?"

Bernard Marr, dead since 1998 and no more trustworthy now than he had been alive, gave a cheerful wave.

"Knew you'd make a dramatic entrance," Bernard said. "Not as dramatic as mine. I went under a carousel horse. Long story."

Felix pointed at him. "He's not allowed here. He once sold my mother a lawnmower that was mostly opinion."

"I sold her possibility."

The central judge rapped the bench with a paper knife.

"Enough filial texture. This hearing concerns Wager 44-B, commonly known as 'Back Him If You Dare.'"

Felix turned slowly. "I'm sorry. What."

Bernard stepped forward, delighted.

"Bit of sport in the Reanimation Club," he explained. "I said you had enough nerve, adaptability, and low-grade decency to qualify for a return assignment. Archdeacon Murch disagreed on the grounds that you are, and I quote, 'the sort of man who would definitely press a button marked Not A Button.'"

From the gallery, a gaunt clergyman raised one hand. "He absolutely would."

Felix found that he had no rebuttal ready.

"So," Bernard continued, "we made terms. If you passed assessment, you'd be permitted reentry after a probationary service posting. If you failed, I'd lose my membership privileges for a century and have to join the Choir Logistics Subcommittee."

"That sounds terrible."

"It is. They alphabetize hallelujahs."

Felix stared at the judges. "And what exactly is a probationary service posting?"

The leftmost judge consulted a slip.

"Guardian spirit duty."

"Absolutely not."

"Noted," said the judge, making no note whatsoever.

"Assignment recipient: Agnes Wibble."

At once there was a murmur across the chamber. Spectral heads turned. One man in the second row actually crossed himself, which seemed unnecessary given the circumstances.

Felix looked around. "Who is Agnes Wibble?"

Silence fell with professional efficiency.

Then Bernard winced and said, "Ah."

"That bad?"

"Felix, my boy, Agnes Wibble is the most accident-prone person currently participating in mortal existence."

"Statistically?" Felix asked.

"Aggressively."

The central judge slid a dossier across the bench. It landed before Felix and sprang open. Inside were photographs, witness statements, insurance notices, and what appeared to be a folded municipal apology.

AGE 6 - escaped toppling ice cream cart, struck by ceremonial bunting.

AGE 14 - fainted during fireworks safety lecture, rolled into duck pond, nearly swallowed whistle.

AGE 21 - narrowly avoided chandelier collapse, injured by congratulatory bouquet.

AGE 29 - survived runaway bakery van. Slip hazard subsequently created by own survival cake.

Felix turned another page.

There were many pages.

"Why is she alive?"

"Intervention," said the rightmost judge. "Mostly unauthorized. Considerable luck. One memorable hedge."

Archdeacon Murch stood.

"I maintain," he declared, "that Marr will last twelve minutes."

"Rude," said Bernard.

"Realistic."

Felix closed the file. "I don't know anything about being a guardian spirit."

"Training booklet included," said the judge.

A pamphlet appeared in his hand.

GUARDIANSHIP: A PRACTICAL GUIDE TO GENTLE NUDGES, WARNING SHIVERS, AND ETHICAL TAMBOURINE USE.

"Ethical what?"

"Do keep up."

Bernard clasped Felix by the shoulder.

"Listen," he said, dropping his voice. "This is your route back. Look after Agnes for ninety days, complete the assignment, don't let her die, and they'll stamp you for return."

"And if she does die?"

Bernard hesitated.

"Then technically you've failed the terms."

"Technically?"

"Also spiritually."

Felix looked again at the file. A woman with laughing eyes and a startled expression stared back from the top photo, as if life had just thrown a ladder at her and she was trying to remain polite about it.

"This is absurd," he said.

"The entire afterlife runs on absurdity and filing cabinets," Bernard replied. "You'll adapt."

The judges conferred in whispers like rustling receipts.

Then the central figure raised the paper knife.

"Felix Marr, do you accept conditional reanimation via guardian assignment?"

Felix thought of radiators, unfinished arguments, and the peculiar indignity of dying while trying to seem clever. He thought, too, of Uncle Bernard banned from some appalling committee, which was a poor moral basis for anything but nevertheless present.

"What if I say no?"

"Permanent processing."

"Meaning?"

"Lectures. Reflection. Possible mandolin."

"Fine," said Felix quickly. "Yes. I accept."

The chamber sighed with the pleasure of bureaucracy being validated.

There was a bang, a flash, and suddenly Felix was standing in a bright kitchen on Earth while a woman in yellow dungarees attempted to retrieve a jam jar from the top of a refrigerator by balancing on a wheeled office chair.

"Oh no," Felix said.

Agnes Wibble looked directly through him, smiled vaguely at the universe, and stretched another inch.

The chair rolled backward.

Felix lunged on instinct. His hands passed through the chair, the cupboard, and half the kettle. The training booklet dropped open midair to page three.

MINOR MATERIAL INFLUENCE MAY BE ACHIEVED THROUGH URGENT CONCENTRATION, PANIC, OR DEEP PERSONAL EMBARRASSMENT.

"Well," Felix muttered. "At least I qualify for one."

He focused with every ounce of posthumous alarm he possessed.

The tea towel on the counter whipped upward, smacked Agnes across the face, and startled her so badly that she sat down hard on the refrigerator instead of falling beneath the chair.

The jam jar tipped, bounced off her shoulder, struck the sink, ricocheted off a saucepan, and landed upright in the cat's water bowl.

Agnes blinked.

"Thank you?" she said to no one visible.

Felix looked at the booklet. Looked at Agnes. Looked upward, in the general direction of the celestial betting pool.

"Twelve minutes," he said. "That's insulting."

Then the toaster burst into flame.