[ WP ] You are John Doe , a completely unremarkable and forgettable person . You are so forgettable , in fact , that even Death forgot about you .

Paul Brown thinks in lists. 
 
 Morning routine: Hygiene, breakfast, clothing. 
 
 He thinks in sub-lists, too. 
 
 Hygiene: Brush, floss, comb. 
 
 Breakfast: Porridge, toast, water. 
 
 Clothing: Slacks, shirt, tie. 
 
 Structured as it is by these lists, his life runs as straight as the creases in his slacks. 
 
 After completing his morning routine, he drives his grey Civic to the office. 
 
 Most days, he exits his driveway, merges onto Main Street, and drives in a straight line until he reaches his parking spot outside the post office. 
 
 Today, instead of maintaining a straight line, he finds himself angled off-course when a schoolbus slams into his passenger-side window. His Civic careens sideways into a lamppost. His door collapses inwards, splits in the middle, and jaggedly skewers his body. 
 
 While he waits in this position to die, he makes a list. 
 
 Pains: Concussed head, broken ribs, crushed arm, multiple impalements. 
 
 Finally, while sirens approach, he bleeds out. This allows him to wriggle out of his body, pass through his seatbelt, and crawl out of his Civic. 
 
 A tall man in a black robe addresses him. `` Mr. Brown, is it?'' The man taps a pen against a clipboard. 
 
 Paul attempts to piece together the shredded remains of his white shirt. `` My first name is Paul. My last name is Brown. My full given name is Paul Alan Brown.'' 
 
 `` Very good. Very good, Mr. Brown.'' The man ticks his clipboard. `` I'm Death. You have died. Do you need a moment?'' 
 
 Paul snugs his tie to his collar. `` I'm quite alright, thank you.'' 
 
 `` If you'll just wait here, then, Mr. Brown, I've got a load of schoolchildren to attend to.'' Death sweeps past Paul on his way to the dozen children phasing through the sides of the schoolbus. 
 
 Having straightened his suit and patted off the dust, Paul is at a loss for what to do. He remains where Death asked him to stand, and counts the elements of disaster around him. 
 
 Dead people: seven little boys, eight little girls, one bus driver, one woman, one baby, one Paul Alan Brown. 
 
 Crashed vehicles: one schoolbus, one grey Civic, one stroller. 
 
 Emergency personnel on-scene: Five ambulances, three police cars, one firetruck. 
 
 The schoolchildren are excited by their ability to phase through solid metal. They give Death a devil of a time, running back and forth through the parked cars, hiding behind policemen, sneaking under Death's robe. It's nearly an hour before Death manages to tick his last box and round the children all up in front of the bus. The bus driver, the woman, and the baby are also there. 
 
 `` Is that everybody?'' he asks the crowd. A boy darts toward the firetruck and Death lunges to grab him by the shirt collar. 
 
 Paul considers shouting that he's still beside his car, but thinks it best not to bother Death, who is already overburdened. 
 
 Death scans his list, wipes a hand across his forehead, and says, `` That's everyone.'' He stretches his hands out, chants in Latin, and, in a flash of black light, disappears, along with the crowd of deceased. 
 
 A queasy feeling bubbles up in Paul's stomach, much like the way he felt in 7th grade when he sat down in the wrong classroom. Here he is, dead, but with no clear idea what to do or where to go. 
 
 Options: Keep waiting, haunt people, go to work. 
 
 Waiting is an attractive idea. After all, that's what Death asked him to do, and it's not like he has to leave to eat. 
 
 Haunting people is out of the question. Far too rude. 
 
 As for work, the post office is just one block over. He can see its flat roof and brick fronting from here. 
 
 `` Nothing like a spot of filing to keep the brain occupied,'' he says to himself. 
 
 And so begins the post office haunting.
