When Craig dies, he is sentenced to come back to earth as a roll of toilet paper. It’s so stupid. When the others in the courtroom of the dead hear this, they laugh until the judge stares at each of them. “That’s enough,” she says, lightly tapping her gavel.

But laughter is how they spend their time, the time they have left before they too are judged and sentenced. They rise and they sit and then they rise and are taken away like guilty loaves of bread at a bakery. Each of them will deny that whatever they are getting is what they deserve. The acceptance part always comes later. That’s what the judge says to her judge, hoping this time the words will be believed, that her own burden at last be lifted.

Back to Craig, the man who is now a roll of toilet paper, with plenty of time to review each and every one of his previous acts, endowed with wisdom he never had when he was alive, searching for the one shameful moment that placed him on the shelf of a store, packed tightly with his seven siblings.

“At least it will be a brief life,” Craig announces, third from the right in this particular package. “I can only do my best to spend it virtuously, so that next time when I am judged I will not return as a piece of plastic, enduring forever with thoughts of all the things I could have done differently.”

“Why spend your time worrying?” his brother in this incarnation Louis says, all one thousand sheets of resolution, like if a roll of toilet paper could grind its teeth, that’s what he’d be doing all the time, forever. “Regardless of what happens next, you know what’s ultimately going to happen to you, so you might as well shut it.”

“I abandoned my family when they needed me most,” at last admits Tony, sitting snug in the bottom left corner. “If I’m here then this is what I deserve; the same goes for all the rest of you. It doesn’t matter what we say or believe subsequently.”

“Sure, Tony,” says Steve. “And before you were a roll of toilet paper, was it you who laughed hardest in the courtroom, or were you the one who tried to flirt with the judge and charm your way into a lighter sentence?”

“Keep your thoughts to yourselves,” says Pamela, just above Tony in the package and already loathing the sound of their voices. “Every time you share, we have more to ruminate, and because the magistrate declared that thoughts and actions are judged exactly the same…”

“Fuck all of you! I plan to relish every single moment,” spurts Todd, lording the center and cutting Pamela off. “We are damned no matter what, so I’m going to have as much fun as a roll of toilet paper can have. I am going to get so goddamn dirty, and none of you better stop me.”

If a roll of toilet paper could have wept, the mother of three teenaged boys would have returned the package right away, claiming water damage. Instead, the package goes in the back of her SUV with the toothpaste, the floss she paid for and the hair scrunchy she shoplifted on impulse.

Craig, alone in his thoughts, thinks the end must come soon. That at any moment now, he will be pulled from his plastic, with even more plastic slid right though his center, then endless awful humiliation until the last oblivion, to be followed by an eternity to dwell upon his experience as time weathers his molecules into finer and finer bits across maybe millions of years. “Was it worth it?” he’ll recollect the judge asking, as unsubtle as a wink.

But that is not what happens. “Come on,” whispers the oldest teenager, Charlie, to Bill and Dave, his younger brothers, as he grabs the entire eight-roll package from its shelf in the pantry. “It’s going to be great!” he says.

A quick left, a right, halfway along the curve, Mr. Jenkins’ house stands, the lawn disgustingly damp, but several mature trees in the moonlight beckon. According to Charlie and Bill, many are the crimes of Jenkins: packages of raisins on Halloween, no tips for the newspaper delivered every morning by Bill on his bicycle, the C- on the English paper Charlie slaved over to express what he really thought about Holden Caulfield. But Mr. Jenkins has also been good, staying late to answer Dave’s questions, and, even if the kids think it’s corny, it’s also clear Mr. Larry Jenkins is passionate about his work.

Craig has so much he wants to say to the boy who cradles him, stories he could tell. But nothing Craig says will be enough, he worries, and to his crimes he’s certain will be added not steering a child away from a path that will lead to this boy spending eternity as a used disposable diaper in a landfill somewhere. You don’t have to do this, floats in the air, implied, but that’s all it’s going to be. Flimsy are his pleadings, drowned out by Todd’s shouting about how now he knows he’s in heaven, for what better fate could fall upon a roll of toilet paper than to TP some stupid teacher’s house?

“No one deserves anything in this world. The least we can do is to abstain from acts that harm,” Steve says, but that gets drowned out by Todd’s “Do it! Do it! Do it!”

“That one moment, when you feel so light, so free, it’s never worth it,” Craig murmurs, lightly cradled in Bill’s right hand.

“Of course it is,” Louis says. “It’s the only moment that matters.”

“Unroll enough for a rooster tail,” Charlie tells his brothers. “Aim for the roof.”