Chapter One

Sam was not happy. There were a multitude of reasons why she was unhappy - she was in a long line, she hated waiting in long lines, her shoes were pinching her toes, the trip to the cabin with Jack had been a disaster of mythic proportion that Daniel was never going to let her live down, the fight with Jack had been completely ridiculous, and the simple truth that the fight with Jack had led to the disgraceful end of the horrid trip with Jack evicting her from his precious cabin. But certainly the most pressing issue and the one that made her the most unhappy of all was the inexorable fact that she had no idea what she was doing at the Department of Motor Vehicles nor how she'd gotten there.

Since she didn't know why she was there, she was tempted, very, very tempted, to leave, thus solving several of her problems at once. But the line was quite long behind her and she didn't want to lose her place in case she remembered why she was there on her way back to the parking lot she didn't remember parking in. With the rate the line was moving, she figured she had at least an hour before she would reach the counter. An hour was plenty of time to come up with a legitimate reason for being there and plenty of time for her to recall the real reason she was there, provided the possibly boredom induced mental lapse was cleared up by then. And really, solving the problem of her feet hurting was only going to draw her attention to the bigger, more cumbersome problems with Jack and her brain function and Sam didn't like to draw her attention to big, cumbersome problems unless she was able to offer quick, simple solutions to them.

With the benefit of time to think, Sam realized that it wasn't all Jack's fault. She wanted to call him and apologize, to make sure they were back to normal by the time she saw him at work on Tuesday, to remind him that she wasn't always a colossal bitch unless he was being a colossal ass. She patted her pockets, happy to find that she'd remembered her phone during her sudden amnesiac episode. The indicator blinked brightly at her, informing her there was no service. She was annoyed, especially after embarrassing herself doing the cell-phone-no-service dance which had no effect at all and promptly remembering that doing the cell-phone-no-service dance had never once had an effect besides the occasional person telling her where the nearest restroom was.

The more she thought about it, the worse she felt for being pissy with Jack. She'd expected to be entertained and it had only just occurred to her that the whole point of the two of them going up to the cabin alone together for four days was so they could entertain each other. She slapped herself in the forehead for her idiocy, forgetting until she'd smacked it into her head that she was still holding her cell phone. She rubbed the sore spot and glanced around nervously, hoping she didn't know anyone who'd witnessed her utterly embarrassing last few moments.

Out of options, Sam faced forward, resigning herself to the despondency of standing in line. It was even less fun than fishing.

Sam's toes had mercifully gone numb by the time she reached the front of the line. Folding her arms on the counter, she stared blankly at the woman before her. The woman was heavyset, middle-aged, and wearing reading glasses secured to her neck with a beaded chain. Her nametag said Marge and Sam thought that she had never once met anyone who so thoroughly matched their name. Marge looked up at Sam and with a single sigh reminded Sam how very important it was to enjoy one's occupation. Sam tried to smile, more out of a need for self-preservation than anything resembling etiquette.

Marge spoke, unveiling the most irritating nasal voice Sam had ever heard. "Name?"

"Um-" After spending so much time in line not speaking and not talking and resolutely not thinking, her mind was a bit sluggish.

Marge clicked on her keyboard. "I'm sorry, you're not in our system. Next."

Shocked into consciousness, Sam's mind started to work again. "Samantha Carter. My name is Samantha Carter."

Marge blinked, obviously weighing her options. "Then why did you say it was um?"

"Um-"

Marge blinked again. "Oh, you're stupid. I get it." She started typing and Sam knew she shouldn't upset her, but she just couldn't let it slide.

"I'm not stupid. I wasn't prepared for the question."

"How long have you been in line?"

Sam had always hated the DMV, but she didn't recall it ever having been so bad. "A long, long time."

"Yes, and how many times have you heard me ask the names of the people in front of you?"

"I wasn't eavesdropping." That sounded good. She'd stick with that.

Marge pushed her glasses down further on her nose so she could glare disapprovingly at Sam while she read whatever was on her screen. Sam watched closely, hoping that Marge would clue her in as to why she was there. It was in that intense scrutiny that Sam saw a flicker of something never before witnessed on the face of an employee at the DMV: compassion. The other woman disguised it quickly, but it distressed Sam. For her to show emotion, something had to be very bad indeed.

Marge pushed a clipboard across the counter. "Please sign here."

Sam looked at the paper, almost filled with name after name after name. The thick section of turned pages appeared to also contain name after name after name. "What is this?"

"It's the registry."

"Registry for what?" Sam didn't want to accidentally sign up for something she wouldn't be able to weasel her way out of later.

"It's the registry of souls. When you die, you get in line. When you reach the front of the line, you sign the registry, your soul is then officially disembodied and you are free to go about your business." Marge's delivery convinced Sam that she'd said the same words a couple billion times. Sam could only hope Marge's escape from the mental asylum was going to be remedied quickly before Marge had to repeat it.

"I'm sorry, what?" Souls? Die? Disembodied? Sam shook her head and noticed Marge's face hadn't softened. "I must have misheard you."

"No, you didn't. Please sign." Marge offered her a pen.

"Then I'm dreaming."

"If you're dreaming, it's not going to make one bit of difference whether you sign the book or not, now is it?" Marge thrust the pen toward her.

Sam leaned forward, refusing to acknowledge the registry and the pen. "I'm little slow. Can you explain this to me?"

Marge's eyes flicked to her computer screen. "Your IQ, Miss Carter, is well above genius level. This is not a difficult concept. Please sign the registry."

Sam scoffed. "I'll have you know this is a difficult concept. I am not dead."

Marge winced. "Please keep your voice down."

"Why? Because all these people will get mad to find out they've been waiting in this line all this time for a new license only to find you telling them they're dead?"

"No, I have a headache. I've been working here for a much longer time than you've been standing in that line, honey."

Sam's anger faded the slightest bit in sympathy. "That must be a terrible way to live. If you hate your job, why don't you quit?"

"It's a living." Marge snickered, as did the other employees who overheard. "Sorry, death humor."

"That's not funny at all." Sam wasn't quite sure what to make of her dream, but she decided her subconscious was trying to tell her something pretty important.

Marge frowned. "You're going to have to develop a sense of humor if you're going to survive." More giggles from the peanut gallery. Marge frowned harder, forming deep crevasses in the haggard skin of her face. "Get used to it, honey. Now, if you don't mind, please sign here."

Sam narrowed her eyes. "No."

"What?"

"I'm not signing. I'm not dead. This is not happening."

Marge stared at her, eventually breaking eye contact to look at her computer screen. "Do you remember being on a plane recently?"

Sam nodded, wondering if her subconscious was trying to tell her not to fall asleep on a plane after fighting with Jack.

"Do you remember falling really fast in that plane?"

Disconcerting as it was, that part did sound a little familiar, but Sam pushed it to the back of her mind. "Look, lady, I'm not dead. I'm here. Right here. See?" She held her hand in front of Marge's face and was quite displeased to discover that she could still sort of see Marge's face through it.

"Sign, please."

"No. I. Am. Not. Dead." Sam had never found any usefulness in being obstinate, but she wasn't seeing any harm in trying it out.

Marge held up her hand, waving it around in the air and making airplane noises like one might when trying to get a kid to eat his peas. Then she smashed her hand down on the registry. "Boom! Dead." She moved her hand, picking up the pen and offering it to Sam again. "You should be thankful. It was instant and painless."

Sam wanted to point out that there had been an incredibly distressing period of time during that falling really fast thing she wasn't admitting to remembering where she had been acutely aware of her impending death and she wanted to mention that had made it hardly seem instant and painless to her, but she decided she should refuse to admit that too. Unfortunately, her eyes started to water and her lips started to turn downward in that horrible involuntary contortion that always immediately prefaced hysterical tears. She shook her head resolutely, knowing the tears didn't help her stance.

Marge handed her a tissue wrapped conveniently around the pen. "There you go, honey, it's starting to click. Most people get confused unless they knew it was coming."

Sam dabbed at her eyes, holding the pen uncertainly in her hand. "Could you check again? Maybe this is a mistake. Why would all that information be in my driving record?"

Marge grimaced, but said nothing. Her eyes glazed over in boredom at the sight of the ten billionth person she'd watched contemplate accepting their death.

"This isn't the DMV, is it?"

Marge shook her head. "Not today. Try back some other time."

"Could you please check again? I'm sure this is all a big misunderstanding. See, I'm not done living yet."

"I don't need to look again. Your case is quite memorable because it's one of the few times that there has actually been a mistake."

"What?" Sam's heart leapt. She wanted to hug Marge. "So I can fix this? What do I need to do?" She set the pen down, happy that she hadn't already signed the soul list.

"Unfortunately, you're already dead. If only the system was psychic, then we could fix the mistakes before they were made." Marge's hardened face started to twitch. She wasn't used to mistakes. They were so rare.

Sam blinked in complete unacceptance. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Oh, we're back to that now?"

Sam raised her voice, hoping Marge's headache would spur her to be cooperative. "You just admitted there was a mistake. Fix it now."

"There's no way to fix it. Your caseworker apparently mixed up your file with Sandra Carter's file and filled out the paperwork for the wrong Miss Carter. Once it was finished, there was simply no way to stop the chain of events leading to your demise."

Sam thought about it for a moment, distracted by the idea that there'd been a mix-up. A cosmic screw up would certainly have been the only logical explanation for her weekend. That understanding immediately gave way to anger. "Are you kidding me? I'm dead because someone signed the wrong form?"

Marge nodded. "Unfortunately. I'm sorry there's nothing we can do."