"Willingness to accept responsibility for your sins, and acknowledge them as such, and face the consequences. That's what I like about you, Harry," the old man said, "you don't sit there blaming your parents--though you'd have some justification if you did--or your teachers, or society, or 'the system,' or Diane." Harry tried not to react to her name. The old man forged ahead. "You don't make excuses for yourself, or invent euphemisms for your misdeeds. And you don't expect to get off with a slap on the wrist. One of the chief complaints of the damned is 'it's unfair,' and 'poor me.' You can try to reason with them, saying, 'But if you'd just give up that old grudge, or bad habit, or addiction or obsession, you'd be happy. If you'd just admit to having been wrong, we can set it right.' That's why Milton has Lucifer say that it's better to reign in hell than serve in heaven! They'd rather be right than be happy."

Harry considered that. "So, how can I make it right?" He didn't really think it was possible. After all, he was dead now. What can a dead man do to fix what he did wrong?

"You tell me."

"Well, to begin with," Harry growled, "I could try not getting myself killed attempting to steal drugs."

"Good start," the old man said, and snapped his fingers.

Harry blinked. There was suddenly a battered-looking table in front of the old man, with a few sheets of paper and a pen on it. The old man picked up the pen and wrote something on a piece of paper, then looked up expectantly at Harry. "What next?"

Confused, Harry scratched his head, then said, "Umm, I could try not to get kicked off the Job."

"Mm-hmm," the old man said, pen scratching away. He gave Harry a glance when he was through.

"OK." Harry was starting to get into this. "If I were doing it all over, I'd get sobered up for real."

"Don't forget the drugs," the old man reminded him.

"Right. Put that down, too."

The old man complied, then laid his pen down. "That will do for a start."

"What happens?" Harry asked.