The world sputtered, stuttered, and stopped.

It wasn’t the first time. Stoppages had become commonplace in the last decade. Usually, the System took care of such glitches on its own, but not this time. This time, the world stayed stopped. For a long while, almost nobody noticed, and if they did, they assumed everything was operating as intended. Breakdowns are baked into the operations of any profitably functional machine, and as any knowledgeable creature will tell you, the world is nothing if not a small part in an immense machine.

The human at the center of the breakdown was not one of these knowledgeable creatures. Maxwell rarely knew what day of the week it was, let alone his place within a bifurcated universe managed by a pantheon of demons, devils, and deities. If he racked his brain and counted the days since his birthday two weeks earlier, he might have been able, after an inordinate amount of time, to figure out it was Tuesday, but Maxwell was in no position to do this. As was typical on days he had promised himself an early start, he was busy sleeping in.

When Maxwell finally awoke, he sensed the beginnings of a stuffy nose and a headache. A sore throat couldn’t be far behind, and he rolled out of bed to see if he had any lozenges tucked away somewhere. He knew he had bought some recently and hoped he hadn’t misplaced them. He stretched his arms over his head, rubbed his eyes, and looked around his room. It looked different, so different Maxwell suspected it might not actually be his room at all. He didn’t need to worry about misplacing his lozenges. He had misplaced his entire apartment.

The room appeared to be part of some sort of spa. At least, he thought it was a spa. He had never been in one before. His dislike of forced relaxation led him to avoid places that advertised themselves with terms like tranquility or restoration, but there was no doubt this room had a general spa-like quality. There were wood-paneled walls, minimalist Nordic furniture, and celestial whale sounds playing from hidden speakers. It was all very serene, serene and terrifying. Maxwell shot out of bed as a familiar panic burned a pit in his stomach. He looked for an exit but found none, only a closed sliding door across from the bed that lacked any obvious opening mechanism.

He was so distracted by his surroundings that it took him several minutes to realize he was dressed in terry cloth—a white shirt and shorts combo that made him look like a member of a very cozy cult. There was a pair of matching paper slippers by the foot of the bed, and, despite his reservations about unfamiliar footwear, he put them on to guard against the cold of the floor. As he did so, he noticed that someone had cleaned and trimmed his toenails. In fact, someone had groomed his whole body. This realization was more horrifying than a simple abduction. What was going on? What turn of events had doomed him to enforced tranquility at the hands of overly hygienic kidnappers?

As Maxwell pondered and panicked, the lights flickered, the music warbled, and the panel across from Maxwell’s bed slid open. A bright light flooded the dim interior, and a squat rectangular frame appeared in the open doorway: a robot. It aligned itself precisely with the entrance to the room and then proceeded to run precisely headfirst into the doorway.

“Recalibrating,” it said, correcting itself and managing, with some effort, to find its way over to Maxwell.

Much like the room itself, wood covered the little machine. Its corners were rounded and there were no visible seams or mechanical components other than the four wheels upon which it rested. It looked like an old-fashioned radio that someone had seen fit to furnish with floppy tendril arms on either side. The tendrils were comprised of ribbed plastic tubing and ended in four metal blades that seemed to function as fingers. A purple LED display at the top of its frame showed a face with two glowing eyes and a row of lights for a smile. It blinked at Maxwell twice and then spoke.

“Welcome and good morning. It is wonderful to meet you.” Its smile remained unbroken as the sunny mechanical voice leaked out from some hidden speaker.

This was too much for Maxwell. He sat in place, staring down at the robot, and tried to remember how he normally went about breathing.

“You appear to be panicking,” the robot said. “This is normal, and your emotions should not make you feel inferior. Maintaining a steady breath, however, is crucial. Some find it helpful to stamp their feet. Shall we try it together?”

Maxwell retreated further into the sleeping pod, hugged his legs, and rocked in place. The robot remained silent in front of him, waiting for Maxwell to stop.

“Are you getting calmer?”

“Not really,” Maxwell said.

“I am sorry to hear that. You must have many questions. However—”

“Why did you kidnap me?”

“Yes, that is a good example. I am hearing concerns about kidnapping. Let me reassure you that you are not currently being held captive.”

“Where am I, then? What’s going on?”

“Typical questions. However, before I can answer, I have some questions of my own.”

The whale sounds in the background skipped. The same section of underwater clicks and moans played on a loop. Maxwell looked down at the robot.

“This can’t be real,” Maxwell said at last.

“That’s not for me to decide. Let us begin. Your name please.”

“Don’t—don’t you know? Was I taken at random?”

“Your name please.”

“Maxwell.”

“Is that two names or one?”

“Sorry?”

“Maxwell or Max Well?”

“What? One, of course.”

“And your age, Mr. Well?”

“Munin. My last name is Munin. I’m 26.”

“Gender?”

“Male.”

“Height?”

“Uh, around six feet, I think.”

“That does not match my records. My records state you are five feet and nine inches.”

“What? No, I’m taller than that. Maybe I’m rounding up a bit, but—”

“Please refrain from approximation. My records must be exact.”

“But if you already have this information, why ask?”

“Eye color?”

“Uh, Green.”

The robot drew closer and took and stared at Maxwell. “I would say brown.”

“No, they are green. They’ve always been green.”

“Incorrect. Job?”

"That’s complicated. I’m taking a pause and trying to break into digital—”

“Unemployed.”

“Well, I do a little bit of online—”

“Unemployed. Finally, can you confirm you are human?”

“What else would I be? Do I not seem human?”

The robot reached out with one of its arm flails and prodded a bit of exposed flesh on Maxwell’s ankle.

“Hmm, yes, you seem human, but there have been incidents. Please confirm you are human by touching my face.”

A button labelled CONFIRM temporally replaced the robot’s smiling face. Maxwell reached out and touched the purple display, which lit up with an electronic chime.

“Thank you, Mr. Well. That concludes inventory. I will be happy to answer any of your questions now.”

The music finally skipped to the next track. Maxwell let go of his legs and moved back to the edge of the bed. He calmed his breathing as best as he could and looked down at the robot.

“What’s going on? What is this?”

“A good first question, and one with a simple answer.”

The robot paused as if it wanted to build dramatic tension. “You are dead.”

It continued to look up at Maxwell with a smile. Jungle sounds and the music of a pipe flute covered the silence that ensued.

"No,” Maxwell said.

“Yes.”

“No.”

“It is the truth. This is the Bereavement Spa, where the newly dead can mourn what has been lost and find lasting peace for up to one hour before moving downstairs for final processing. Perhaps I can answer some more questions and help you accept your fate.”

“You told me to breathe just now. I can’t be breathing if I’m dead.”

“You are in your temporal body. When your physical form no longer functions, your temporal form sheds its imperfect vessel and awakens here in the Spa.”

“It feels like my regular body.”

“In function and feeling it should be equivalent to the one you left behind. Your temporal body is born from the form that was left behind.”

Maxwell looked around the room. “None of this makes sense. This is ridiculous.”

“If you are agitated, I can get you some water. Water often helps with the adjustment. It is very soothing.”

“No, I want to go home.”

“I am hearing that you are upset and would like to leave. Unfortunately, that is impossible. Instead, why not take some time to reflect on the wonderful experiences you had in life? Does that sound comforting?”

Maxwell snorted.

“Everything is OK. You were loved and accepted. Your efforts are at an end.”

“Is this a script? It sounds like a script.”

“There are some conditions I must explain before we proceed.”

“Proceed to what? This is all going too fast. I—I just need to think.”

“I am hearing that you would like a few minutes to process everything. That is understandable, but I will explain the conditions now.”

An image of sand filtering through an hourglass replaced the robot’s face.

“Your life was a series of moments. Joyful moments, sorrowful moments, angry moments, tired moments, hungry moments—”

“I get the idea,” Maxwell said.

The picture on the robot’s display changed to a field of stars.

“These moments are the fuel of the universe.”

"Wait—wait—”

“Do not interrupt.” The image flashed back to the robot’s purple face, but it was not smiling. A digital scowl stayed on its display until it was clear Maxwell would stay quiet. “There will be time for clarification later.”

The stars reappeared.

“As I was saying, the moments of your life are the fuel of the universe. They are how we make new moments. New time can only come from old time.”

A new image on the display. This time an animated scene in a large factory, where people in grey overalls were loading bins full of clocks into a massive grinder.

“When you die, we recycle your memories, converting them back into their basic form: pure momentary time. The recycled moments become new time for future beings, and when they die, we clean up those same moments and set them to work again. On and on it goes, all because you gave your life back to the universe. In other words, the world really did revolve around you all along.”

The robot’s speakers produced a tinny laugh. Maxwell did not join in.

“This is ridiculous.”

“It is factual.”

“How can I be dead?”

The display transformed back into a purple smiling face.

“The same way all humans can, you ran out of time, and now you will move on.”

“Move on? To what?”

“Eternity.”

The word descended with finality, and some floor inside Maxwell gave way.

“I am perceiving sadness. This is unnecessary. All is well. You will select your best memory and take it with you into forever. One memory that will keep you warm for eternity.”

“Only one?” Maxwell asked.

“It is a wonderful deal. There was a time when you left with nothing. Now you get to swim in a single perfect moment, and that memory gets turned into a part of an eternal edifice.”

“Where’s that?”

“It has yet to be built, but we are working on it. Until then, we keep the memories in a closet down the hall.”

“I don’t think I want to spend eternity living one memory on repeat.”

“Of course not. That would be terrifying. This conversation will be your last temporal experience. You will inhabit your last memory in its totality, free from the limits of time.”

“I don’t understand what that means.”

“Nor do I, but I assume it is wonderful.”

“Does everyone have to make this decision?”

“Oh yes, there is nothing special about you. Central Processing sits directly below us. One by one, everyone passes through there.”

“And that’s it?” Maxwell asked.

The robot moved its entire body up and down in what appeared to be a nod.

Maxwell said nothing.

"You seem sad. I will get some soothing water. Please be ready for a final accounting when I return.”

“You can’t expect me to come up with something on the spot,” Maxwell said, but there was no reply. The robot was gone.

Maxwell curled up on the bed and worried about never having to worry about anything ever again.