Newman paced the perfectly white floor of the waiting room. The walls were white, as were the lights and the uniform of the lone nurse running by.

There were six others seated in the room. No one new had come and no one had left. 

A voice spoke, breaking the silence. 

“There’s nothing to be nervous about,” a woman said.

Newman stopped pacing, but his feet grew restless. “How can you say that?”

“They’ve done this billions of times. That makes me think they know what they’re doing.” She waved her hand in a single arc of greeting. “I’m Spring.”

“Newman.”

“Have you been waiting long?”

There was no clock in the waiting room. He might have been there for hours or days or years. There was no way to know.

“My feet hurt,” Newman said.

“You’ve almost worn away the floor,” Spring said. Her crooked smile was sweet and honest, yet it made him think of his own imperfections. His failure. “I’m sure there’s nothing to be nervous about.”

Newman had one specific thing to be nervous about.

“Haven’t you thought about what happens…after?” he asked.

“Oh my no, I’ve been so excited for it to be my turn. Picking my meaning was hard enough.”

“You picked yours already?”

“Oh yes. I picked mine ages ago. You can’t be born without knowing your meaning of life.”

Newman’s jaw tensed, making each word a challenge. “What did you chose?”

“I want to create beauty,” she said. “I imagine there can never be enough beauty in the world. Maybe through dance.” She waved her arms about. “What’s yours?”

Newman plopped into the chair next to her. His legs shook uncontrollably. “Still stuck between a few.”

Her eyes widened. “You have to pick soon.”

Newman knew that. It wasn’t from lack of effort that he remained undecided – he’d studied and researched every book available in the Neverlife, every document and analysis on what existence was like and how he could contribute in a useful way. 

But the Neverlife was all he’d known, and it wasn’t much of an existence – every moment was spent planning for life. Not everyone got the opportunity to live; he had been selected, chosen for reasons he didn’t understand. But all the books he read were written by people who’d never lived. How could they know what life was like? How could he know he’d be successful at what he chose?

He didn’t want to waste his slot.

A nurse came through the archway on the far side of the room. Nothing could be seen through it, just a stone outline around a white wall that was anything but a wall. The nurse walked briskly on short legs. Everyone’s heads rose, breaths held, waiting to see who she would select. 

Newman had sifted through meanings from solving world hunger to decorating a downtown loft. Every meaning either seemed too ambitious or too small, too generous or too selfish, too impossible or too trivial. There were no in-betweens, nothing that fit right in the middle where it mattered and was feasible. 

There was no failure if no goal was set. Did that absolve him of responsibility? Was it better to never try than fail at the attempt? This was his one contribution to the life he would become – giving it purpose. He didn’t understand what that actually meant.

The nurse approached a man sitting in the corner. He looked calm and confident. The man rose and followed the nurse through the archway, disappearing into a void as bland as the wall around it.

“I talked to him when he got here,” Spring whispered. “His meaning is about making money. In case you’re looking for ideas.”

“Why did you pick yours?” Newman asked.

Spring wrinkled her tiny nose, as if the question had an awkward smell. “Gee, it just seemed like the right thing. I looked at all the lists like we’re told. I did my research, and beauty was what I picked.” Her nose wrinkled further. “Do you think I picked the wrong one?”

“No, I’m sure it’s a good one.” Newman looked at the archway. “Did you ever think about saying no?”

“No?”

“To being born.”

Spring cocked her head to the side. “Why would you say no?”

“What if life just isn’t for you?”

She snorted, almost sounding like a laugh. “But, everyone lives eventually.”

Eventually, but did it have to be now?

The Neverlife was calm and tranquil. There were no expectations but one. 

War, sickness, poverty, conflict, pain, and failure, these were alien concepts, and all Newman understood was that each should be avoided for a happy existence. He was already doing that in the Neverlife. 

There was no meaning of life that could avoid them all. Life was no guarantee of success.

“Are you at all afraid?” Newman asked.

The word “afraid” made Spring’s eyes pop and lips purse. “Afraid of what?”

“Life.”

“I can’t imagine being scared of life.”

Newman had asked this questions before. He’d hoped someone facing the final archway would share his concerns. “But life is so unknown.”

“It’s what we’re meant to do,” Spring said as if quoting a script.

“But there are so many challenges,” he said. He could feel heat brewing inside him, making it uncomfortable to remain seated. “We don’t know where we’ll be born. Will our parents be rich or poor? What language will they speak? Have I chosen a meaning that is impossible to fulfill given my place? What happens after life if I haven’t completed my meaning?” 

The question he left unasked: would someone else have done better?

Spring pulled at the ends of her hair. “I hadn’t thought about all that.” She paused for a breath. “You ask a lot of questions.”

Newman couldn’t understand why everyone didn’t ask the same things. “We don’t really know what happens on the other side,” he said.

“You’re right,” Spring said. “We don’t.”

They sat in silence without regard for the passage of time.

Eventually, the nurse emerged from the archway. She scurried between chairs and found her way to Newman and Spring.

She checked her clipboard. “Spring?”

“Yes,” Spring replied.

“Come with me.”

Spring took her time rising. The nurse seemed unaffected by the delay. For as fast as she moved, she wasn’t in a rush.

“What about me?” Newman asked.

The nurse spun her head. She had tiny spectacles that hovered precariously on the edge of her nose. She glanced at the clipboard. “Newman?”

“Yes.”

“You’re next.”

The nurse shuffled back to the archway. Spring followed and had to hurry to keep up. She turned back toward Newman and offered a smile, but only using her lips, not her eyes. Then she disappeared behind the void.

Newman began pacing again. He looked at the archway, then back at the plain, panel door that returned to the Neverlife. He could walk back through it and pretend he had never been called. Someone else would make better use of this opportunity.

He stood in the center of the waiting room, no longer pacing and no longer compelled to move. He was frozen, stuck in limbo between life and never, waiting for the last push over the edge.

Finally, the archway opened and the nurse appeared. It was his turn.

#

Through the void was a long corridor with little light. Newman stayed close to the nurse for fear of being left behind, not that he could get lost – there was only one way to go. 

At the end of the corridor was a desk with a single lamp, piles of papers in an inbox, and fewer papers in an outbox. Behind the desk sat a man with a gray beard and wrinkles.

The nurse disappeared, yet Newman hadn’t seen her leave.

The man pulled papers from the inbox and made harsh strikes at them with the tip of his pen. Then, he flipped them over into the outbox.

Newman remained at a distance, fearful of the pen and the man.

“Sit,” the man said without looking up. 

Newman complied, sitting in the chair next to the desk.

“Name?” The man continued to attack his papers.

“Newman.”

“Right.” He fumbled through his piles. “Ah, got it.”

Newman waited, expecting more questions.

“You’d think they could give me a computer,” the man said.

“Sir…” Newman began.

“Stork,” the man said. “Call me Stork.”

“Stork. I’m not sure I’m ready…”

Stork lifted a hand and studied the sheet in front of him. The end of his beard seemed to mark his place on the page.

“You haven’t picked a meaning yet,” he said.

“No, sir.”

“Everyone has to have a meaning.”

“I understand. It’s been…”

Stork shook his head. “This won’t do. I can’t finalize your birth without meaning.”

The walk back to the waiting room seemed impossibly long, but Newman was prepared to make it. He started to stand.

“Where are you going?”

“This means I can’t be born,” Newman said with certainty.

“Pish posh. You just have to pick your meaning right now. I’m excellent at working under a time crunch.” Stork reached into a drawer and pulled out a scroll, which he handed to Newman. “Pick one.”

Newman unfurled the scroll and let it roll to the floor. He had studied this list over and over again, and he couldn’t imagine what would help him choose now when he couldn’t before.

“What about this one?” Newman pointed to a random selection near the top. It had something to do with baseball.

“You can’t just pick one at random,” Stork said. 

“There are so many,” Newman said.

“That there are. As many meanings as there are individuals.”

The scroll didn’t seem long enough for that. “But how can I choose? There isn’t enough time.”

Stork put down his pen and folded his hands atop the desk. “And how much time do you have?”

Newman opened his mouth, but realized he had no idea how to answer.

“What do you think your meaning of life really is?”

Again, Newman was at a loss for words.

“You’re not the first to reach my desk without choosing.”

This made Newman sigh with relief. He realized he’d been holding his breath.

“You’re being asked to make a choice about your entire life before it even starts,” Stork said, leaning across the desk. “Sounds unfair. But wouldn’t it also be unfair to let you choose afterward? This is the way we do things. It’s how we ensure each person is unique. This is the person you want to become. It’s how we design you – your personality, your interests, your passions. Do you want to leave something like that up to chance?”

Newman shook his head.

“Here’s a tip,” Stork said. “You won’t remember what you choose.”

This was not what Newman had expected. “Then why pick one?”

Stork smiled. “Why be born? Because it’s what we’re meant to do.”

Newman stared at the endless scroll, which seemed to continue stretching outward even as he held it. The longer he waited, the more options he had.

Stork leaned closer, reaching his hand across the desk. “What defines you? What makes you stand out? Don’t worry if it’s right or wrong. Life has no correct answers. Just lots of questions.”

Newman looked back at the scroll. He tugged at it, going through each line methodically, reading with the sincerity of his life depending on it. But for every line he read, all his mind would do was ask how and why and what for. Every meaning was undermined or contradicted or tossed aside for its impossibility.

Until Newman realized what he was doing, and it started to make sense.

The idea shaped in his mind like a newly formed zygote. It had been there the whole time, his attitude toward the entire process, fighting it because he didn’t understand it.

“This one.” He pointed at the scroll.

“An excellent choice,” Stork said. He picked up the pen and scribbled something on the paper, then placed it in the outbox. “It’ll be just a moment.”

The nurse appeared out of nowhere. “Ready?” she asked.

Newman stood and followed her down the rest of the corridor, the desk and the man disappearing behind them.

The corridor narrowed and blackened. Newman had to hunch over as they walked, barely able to see inches in front of him. They arrived at a small door that required him to crouch on his hands and knees. 

The nurse drew a ring of keys from her belt and unlocked the door with a satisfying click. “Happy Birthday,” she said, then turned and sped back into the darkness.

Newman knelt in front of the door. Its knob was simple brass and the paneling was nondescript, like a crumpled piece of paper had been taped to the wall. He could turn around and leave. No one was forcing him through. 

But he knew his meaning of life. Maybe he wouldn’t remember it, but something told him it would stay long past his birth. He could feel the drive it fostered, the satisfying sense of purpose it provided. 

Being born was his chance to answer all the questions. 

He couldn’t do that in the Neverlife. Discovery was for the living – those with limited time were compelled by the unknown but inevitable deadline.

He would reach into the universe and try to understand it. What came before, what came after, and what happened in between. That was his purpose.

He reached for the knob and opened the door. He crawled inside and entered the world.

Michael Sherrin developed his preference for fiction when he learned reality didn't include a real Spider-Man. He has an MBA from the Kellogg School of Management, where he learned to write riveting Excel formulas, though the solutions were often predictable. By day, he works with complex analytical algorithms, and by night he works on short stories and his novel. Michael lives outside Boston with his husband, dog, and several thousand action figures.

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