Larry raises, steadying himself for a quick trip to the bathroom. The television updates the same news. He is sick of hearing it, but he does not want to miss the Lotto draw. He used his SALotto card to register his entry this time. Never again a lost ticket.

With the discomfort of his swollen prostrate, he prefers to sit than stand. Why is he so restless? Is the negative news cycle or Dr Kearney’s concern over Larry’s cholesterols and blood pressure?

He experiences a sense of relief, both physically and mentally, as he settles down onto the cushioned seat. His fingers dwell on the three buttons in the unfastened cardigan’s pocket; the cardigan kitted by his mother long ago. Each button is associated with loss. He witnessed her grief on his brother’s tragic, fatal car accident. Stoic. Some thought her unfeeling, but he knew a part of his mother died that day, forcing her to move on, knitting needles in hand. Unable to match her stoic strength he emigrated to Australia, finding himself here in Adelaide.

His fingers trace the first button, bringing him back to Little Larry’s drowning. At Brenda’s sister’s home. A backyard barbecue, an informal wetting of a nephew’s head. Who should have kept an eye on the children by the pool? He knows he should know, but he doesn’t. Deep in his heart, he sensed a force of destiny at play. His son died. A dark corner knew a rightness he cannot explain. He recalled carrying Little Larry’s body in the ambulance; later to the mortuary, identifying his son after signing his heart away. It comes to him. Rose, mother of new baby, found Little Larry floating in their pool.

Fingering Brenda’s button; recalling his wife’s hysterical, overt soul crushing grief. He was his mother’s son and to him, impatient at his wife’s lack of constraint. He called their local doctor, Daniel Kearney, bringing his wife, Heather, for the calming of Brenda. The heavens rained down as Brenda sobbed, control lost. Brenda’s cries declared this night will see God the bed.

Larry jerks at a clap of thunder; torrential rain pounds the corrugated iron roof. Yes, that is why they all had come indoors. A sudden downpour.

Yes, she was furious that he signed the donation form, sending Little Larry’s heart into a stranger. How dare he? Without asking her first, without understanding she had then been beyond reason. And a child in desperate need evoked Larry’s response without hesitation. It seemed the right thing to do. So, he had argued, explained, pleaded for her compassion.

She changed her tune after an ultrasound. Choosing the morally upright path, Brenda declined to abort despite knowing this child has no brain. Somehow, in her head, this was God’s will. At Little Larry’s funeral service, she saw him, dressed in a grownup sky-blue suit with this baby cradled in his arms. She knows many thought Little Larry a bit of a brat, an unlikely angel, but this vision carried her through, resisting sensible advice. Her daughter’s heart destined for donation; until the deaths of both mother and child.

Larry’s mind lingers over the things known and the things unknown. If he had known about the road extension plan, he might not have mixed Little Larry’s ashes into the concrete wishing-well that Brenda wanted built of the backyard. His fingers clench the Brenda button. She will see him in hell first. He sighs. He has forgotten the particular argument. She screamed into the void. He understood her soul-destroying anger that washed, then drenched him when caught in the passing moment of her storm. The constant drizzle didn’t faze him, but her words sliced through him like claws. To stem the torrent of her vitriol, he raised the back of his hand and hit her. That one time. Damned by her forever.

He leans forward, elbows on his thighs. Too late, the thought of buying the padded seat for her; his bowels empty. He drifts into a lucid dream where Brenda’s arms are outstretched and waiting. A current of energy courses from the centre of his forehead as he falls forward. The ribbon of prayer rose, reaches the shoulder of the nearest earthbound angel.

Surrounded by bagged belongings, an old lady stirred, sleep broken by a dream. Sensing a sudden need to depart, sighed, what now? She staggers away. A passing security guard sent up a prayer of thanks, relieved he does not need to roust the old woman.

Larry’s guardian angel, Olivia, gathers the whispering shreds of his soul into closer care. She carries him to a place of safety to contemplate possibilities before the forty-first day. But she does not leave him to wake alone.

Waking, he feels a tug on his right sleeve. Looking down over his shoulder, he does not disbelieve the small, angelic form stood at his side. Sitting, he raises his knees, hugging them to his chest. No, his eyes do not deceive. Elfin or angel? Both forms are hitherto unknown. He cannot deny its being.

With Angelf’s hand guiding him, he stands. A moment of wonder. Where, why, and how had he come here?

“Let’s take a walk.” Angelf tugs his hand. Now able to assess his whereabouts, Larry sees they stand on a platform only three centimetres thick, but considerably wide. While slowly walking away from the edge, Larry’s brain registers the shapes seen on blueprints from his past fitting and turning life. With Angelf now in the crook of his arm, he asks, “Are we on the outer edge of a hexagon?”

Angelf, grinning the while, jumps from Larry’s hold, landing on his right shoulder. “You’re lightning fast for someone ordinary.” Larry never considered himself otherwise, so takes no offence. He strokes Angelf’s feathered arm, “And you, what shall I call you? Are you ordinary? In this place? What is this place? Again, are we on a hexagonal platform?”

“So many questions. Yes, this place assesses. Three criteria already passed. You only need one more to be deemed worthy. Move.” Larry’s now alert he’s in the central hexagon, as formed by the surrounding six sides shimmering rainbow colours.

“Worthy? Am I being judged?”

“No, no, emphatically no. Judgement? No. No, no, emphatically no. Someone will assess you.”

“For what? By whom? Unsure if ever I did right. Obviously, I may have unknowingly caused harm.”

Angelf strokes Larry’s cheek. “Relax. As of now, you have shown me kindness, humility and, by so many quick questions, zeal.“

An incoming message interrupts Angelf, knocking him off Larry’s shoulder. By dying a day earlier than the telemetric designation, Larry will donate a vast sum to the charity of St. Vincent de Paul in Adelaide. Recent arrivals could bring news of Larry’s Lotto win. A reputation for generosity, however inadvertent, follows through the ages and aeons. Angelf is called to account for the difference a day has made in Larry’s lifespan.

Angelf lowers Larry to a cloud-like level where multitudes await admission beyond the golden curtains.

“Go ahead. Make yourself known. Talk to,” pointing to the ghost of a bag-lady, “she knows the ropes.”

Freed from Angelf’s presence on his shoulder, Larry wonders how slight a being weights as a conscience. Alerted to his gaze, the old lady takes Larry’s hand, leading him to the platform’s edge. “Sit ye down. Peek over the side.” Larry does as bid.

Larry is back in Adelaide, yet he is not. Below are streetlights outlining the familiar shape of five squares within the city mile. The days, nights, and seasons change with each blink of his believing eyes. Light shows never attended. Festival lights flash at regular intervals. John Martin’s Christmas parade every November. The memory of his son triggers his tears cradled in the fat man’s lap. His brief life heartbreakingly ended, forerunner to the grief that followed. With one arm around his shoulders, the old lady draws an old rag from her pocket, offering to wipe his tears. He takes the rag and stems the flow. Comfort and kindness, freely given, unexpected. Appreciated. He wipes the cloth on the trousers of his wedding suit. Paroxysm. Gut wrenching. The old lady hugs him close and he hears her heart. Life exists, even wherever “here” is.

Look, who do you see? She turns time, so he views yesterday from above.