In which the narrator takes a bus from a dreary little town in the rain, on the verge of nightfall, and to a wonderful valley filled with greenery and lions and unicorns, and in which those who got off the train, are nothing more than ghosts.
There are solid humans here, too. They, being saints, have come to the bus to help the damned souls on it escape. The vignettes of the damned wrestling with the possibility of happiness are exquisite. One conclusively accepts; several others conclusively reject; and a number of others we do not see the end of the matter.
I don't think the ending, where he tries to show the transcending effect of free will, quite works. Something about the difficulties of show transcendence in cold prose. But that's only a few pages. The rest is great.