He looked to the heavens and uttered a prayer, thanking whomever it was that he was living, and not among the dead or the pained dying. The prayer was brief because he had learned that Heaven, like every other institution, preferred concise applications.

He closed his eyes and waited for the customary feeling of relief. None came. Instead, he heard a small metallic sound behind him, as if someone had placed a stamp upon a sheet of paper.

He turned. There was no one there. The sound came again.

On the kitchen table, which had been empty a moment earlier, lay an envelope. His name was printed upon it in narrow black letters. Beneath his name were the words: DEPARTMENT OF EXISTENCE—NOTICE OF STATUS REVIEW.

He did not open it immediately. He had always believed that unopened letters retained a certain innocence. Once opened, they acquired authority.

He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down. The coffee was cold.

This did not surprise him. Nothing had surprised him since the morning he woke to find his alarm clock running backward. It had displayed six o’clock when he went to bed, five o’clock when he awoke, and four o’clock by the time he had finished dressing. He had assumed the clock was defective. Then he noticed that the shadows outside his window were also moving in the wrong direction.

He opened the envelope.

Dear Sir,

Our records indicate that you may currently be alive.

This condition has not been verified.

You are therefore required to report to the Department of Existence at 9:00 a.m. tomorrow for examination. Failure to appear may result in your classification as deceased.

Please bring proof of life.

Do not bring witnesses.

The Department accepts no responsibility for the consequences of an incorrect classification.

There was no signature.

At the bottom, in smaller type, was a final sentence:

You are advised not to discuss this notice with anyone.

He read it three times.

Then he went to the telephone.

He intended to call his brother, but when he lifted the receiver he heard someone breathing on the other end.

“Hello?” he said.

The breathing stopped.

“Who is this?”

After a pause, a voice said, “Are you alive?”

He hesitated.

“Yes.”

“Then you should not be using that telephone.”

The line went dead.

That night he slept badly. Several times he awoke convinced that someone was standing beside the bed, examining him. Each time there was no one there. At three in the morning, however, he found a sheet of paper beneath his pillow.

Preliminary Finding: Life is probable.

He did not sleep again.

The Department of Existence occupied a building he had passed hundreds of times without noticing. It stood between the post office and the courthouse, although he was certain that the space between the buildings had always contained a vacant lot.

The building had no windows on the ground floor. Above the entrance was a sign: DEPARTMENT OF EXISTENCE

Below it, in smaller letters: WE DETERMINE WHETHER YOU ARE HERE.

He entered at precisely nine. A clerk sat behind a glass partition.

“Name?”

He gave it.

“Purpose?”

“Status review.”

The clerk looked at him with mild irritation. “Everyone says that.”

He handed over the notice.

The clerk read it, stamped it, and returned it.

“Second floor. Room 214.”

“Thank you.”

The clerk looked at him again. “You should not thank me.”

“Why?”

“I have not helped you.”

He went upstairs.

Room 214 contained six chairs and a long wooden desk behind which sat three officials. The official in the middle was a woman with gray hair.

The man on her right had no face that he could see clearly, although there was nothing physically wrong with it. The third official was asleep.

“Sit,” said the woman.

He sat.

“State your name.”

He did.

“State your age.”

He did.

“Are you alive?”

“Yes.”

“On what grounds?”

He looked at her. “Because I am sitting here.”

“That is an assertion,” she said. “We require evidence.”

She pushed a form toward him. At the top it said: FORM 7B—DECLARATION OF PERSONAL CONTINUANCE.

He filled in his name. In the box labeled Current Physical Condition, he checked Alive.

The woman crossed it out. “You cannot certify your own condition.”

“Why not?”

“Because you are the subject of the inquiry.”

“But I am the person experiencing my condition.”

“That makes you interested.”

He considered this. “What evidence would you accept?”

“That is for the Department to determine.”

The faceless man leaned forward. “Have you experienced pain?”

“Yes.”

“Recently?”

“Yes.”

“Can you prove it?”

“No.”

“Then we cannot use it.”

The sleeping official suddenly opened his eyes. “Have you died?”

“No.”

The official nodded thoughtfully and wrote something down.

“What did you write?” the man asked.

“Insufficient denial.”

The interview continued for two hours. They asked him whether he remembered his childhood, whether he had dreams, whether he owned property, whether anyone had ever loved him, whether he had ever lied, and whether he believed that tomorrow would occur.

He answered as honestly as he could. At the end, the woman gathered the papers.

“You may go.”

“Am I alive?”

“We have not determined that.”

“When will you determine it?”

“When the investigation is complete.”

“How long will that take?”

“That depends on whether you remain alive during the investigation.”

He stood. “Am I permitted to leave?”

The woman looked surprised. “Of course.”

He walked to the door.

“Wait,” she said.

He turned.

“You forgot your receipt.”

She handed him a small piece of paper. RECEIPT FOR TEMPORARY EXISTENCE. He stared at it.

“Temporary?”

“All existence is temporary.”

“Until when?”

She smiled politely. “That is not a question for this department.”

Outside, the city appeared unchanged. Cars moved along the streets. People carried groceries. A dog slept beneath a tree. He watched these ordinary activities with suspicion, wondering whether all of them had undergone examination.

At home, he found his front door unlocked. Inside, everything had been rearranged.

His furniture stood in the same places but belonged somehow to another room. His photographs showed people he recognized, yet he could not remember meeting them. In one photograph, he was standing beside his mother, who had been dead for eleven years.

On the back of the photograph was written: EVIDENCE OF PRIOR EXISTENCE.

He sat down. The telephone rang. He answered.

“Hello?”

His own voice spoke. “Do not go back to the Department.”

“Who is this?”

“You know.”

“I don’t.”

“You will.”

The line went dead. The following morning, there was another letter.

“Dear Sir: Your application remains under consideration. However, during routine review, an inconsistency has been discovered. According to municipal records, you have been dead for six years. You are required to appear immediately to explain this discrepancy.”

He read the letter until the words became meaningless. Then he went to the Department.

The clerk at the entrance looked at him. “You again.”

“You said my case was under review.”

“It is.”

“Your records say I have been dead for six years.”

The clerk nodded. “They are very clear.”

“But I am here.”

“That is the difficulty.”

“I want this corrected.”

The clerk sighed. “Everyone does.”

He was directed to Room 318. There he met a different official, a thin man with a large ledger.

“Your file is unusual,” the official said.

“How?”

“You are deceased, but you continue to report for work.”

He had not realized this until the official mentioned it. “Do I?”

“Yes. You have maintained perfect attendance.”

“For six years?”

“According to our records.”

He stared at the ledger. “What happened to me six years ago?”

“That is classified.”

“But I would remember.”

“Not necessarily.”

“Can I see the record?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because you are dead.”

He stood abruptly. “I am not dead.”

The official closed the ledger. “That statement is not helpful.”

“What would be helpful?”

“A death certificate.”

“I don’t have one.”

“We have one.”

“Then show it to me.”

“We cannot show it to you because the certificate concerns you.”

“This is absurd.”

The official looked genuinely offended. “Sir, absurdity is not an objection to procedure.”

He lowered his voice. “What happens if you decide I am dead?”

“We already have.”

“Then what happens?”

“You will be notified.”

“How?”

The official smiled. “Through the mail.”

He left the Department and wandered through the city.

He felt that people were looking at him, though whenever he turned, they were engaged in ordinary activities. A woman purchased bread. A child kicked a stone. Two men argued about parking.

At noon he entered a restaurant. The waiter approached.

“Table for one?”

“Yes.”

The waiter looked at him. “I am sorry. We don’t serve the deceased.”

“I am not deceased.”

The waiter shrugged. “Our records say otherwise.”

“How could your restaurant have records?”

“We subscribe to the municipal system.”

He left without eating.

That evening he stood before the mirror for a long time. His reflection looked tired. He raised his hand. The reflection raised its hand. He smiled.

The reflection did not. He stepped backward. The reflection remained where it was. Then it turned and walked out of the mirror. He did not scream. He had reached the stage of fear at which screaming seemed inefficient. The reflection walked into the hallway, opened the front door, and disappeared.

A few minutes later, there was a knock. He opened the door. The clerk from the Department stood outside.

“You are required to come with me.”

“Why?”

“The Department has concluded its investigation.”

“Am I alive?”

The clerk looked embarrassed. “That is no longer the relevant question.”

They walked together through empty streets. “Where are we going?”

“To the Department of Final Matters.”

“I didn’t know there was such a department.”

“Most people don’t.”

The building was underground. Inside were hundreds of corridors, all identical. Doors bore numbers but no names. Behind them, he heard typing, coughing, and occasionally the sound of someone laughing.

At last they entered a large room. Rows of desks extended into darkness.

At each desk sat a person writing. The clerk led him to a chair.

“Wait here.”

“For how long?”

The clerk checked his watch. “Until your turn.”

“What is my turn?”

The clerk walked away. He waited. People came and went. Some were crying. Some were carrying folders. One man repeatedly asked where he was, but no one answered him.

After what seemed like several hours, a woman approached with a file.

“Are you him?”

“Yes.”

She opened the file. “Your case has been resolved.”

“How?”

“You have been determined to be neither alive nor dead.”

He felt an unexpected relief. “What does that mean?”

“It means the Department can no longer be responsible for you.”

“What am I, then?”

“That is your responsibility.”

She handed him a document. At the bottom was a line for his signature. He read it.

I HEREBY ACCEPT FULL RESPONSIBILITY FOR MY EXISTENCE, INCLUDING ANY ERRORS THEREIN.

“I don’t agree with this.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Then why sign it?”

“You don’t.”

“What happens if I don’t?”

She looked at him for a long time. “Then we continue determining your status.”

He understood. He took the pen. His hand trembled as he signed.

The woman took the document. “Thank you.”

“What happens now?”

“Nothing.”

She smiled. “You may return home.”

When he reached the street, dawn was beginning. He walked slowly toward his house. For the first time in many days, no one stopped him. No letter awaited him. No official followed him.

He entered his kitchen. The coffee was still on the table where he had left it. He poured a cup. It was warm. He sat by the window and looked toward the sky.

He wanted to pray again, but he could not decide whether prayer was permitted to someone whose existence had been declared his own responsibility.

After a while, he heard the metallic sound. A stamp. He looked down. A small card had appeared on the table: STATUS: PENDING. Beneath it was a final instruction: DO NOT MAKE ANY DECISIONS UNTIL YOUR STATUS HAS BEEN DETERMINED.

He read the sentence carefully. Then he looked at the door. Then at the window. Then at the card.

He understood that he could spend the rest of his life waiting for permission to prove that he had one. So he stood. He opened the door.

And because no officials were present to tell him not to, he walked outside.