George was fairly certain he was dead now. The last time his eyes were open, they were looking down an empty subway tunnel under lower Manhattan. George was a track checker and close to retirement. It was his last full week at work and as he had done for 35 years previously, he trudged his section of tunnel looking for problems on the line, around the line, down the line.
Now George noticed he was walking on a dirt road. The Sun was up high like it was one side of noon or the other. Trees swayed slightly under a kind and gentle breeze. Outside woodsy smells assaulted his nostril replacing the stench of the subway he had huffed 5 days a week for the last too many years. He had a walking stick in his hand and he no longer limped.