We laugh at the selfie, my toothy grin, Jesus a full foot shorter, a wave of amber tresses and olive glow. A day to remember, you write in the polaroid’s blank space. Jesus starts a sermon: red heifer, red threshold, red dragons, red sea, red horses. I interrupt—too much conspiracy. Robes and sandals in winter give the wrong impression. We venture into an alley so He can practice in secret, focus on lambs and doves. Instead, Jesus unzips the brick wall, revealing an elevator. Formal celestial travel requires trumpets, feathers, fanfare, and He is short on time. The ride feels steady, gyroscopic. When the doors open, I expect clouds or sand. Instead, the same alley, just with longer shadows that dim the graffiti. Jesus chuckles. Did we expect heaven? Before I answer, you ask about the rapture, whether anyone will be instructed to stay behind. Guide the lost. Take pictures for angels’ entertainment. He pauses. With that septum piercing, Jesus did take you for premillennialist. He explains that after Revelation’s critical reception, he does not talk eschatology with fans. But you grovel prostrate. He sighs. He makes a silent, Levitical gesture, plucks the polaroid from my pocket, asks if I heard Him say aim lower.