For once, Proto had a normal dream—no visitors, no Mercune, and no visions of possible futures. Just a dream of going for a run on a brisk Autumn day.

  Not that he realized it was a dream at first. No, he was busy admiring how the reds, oranges and yellows of the season’s peak had started waning brown. The chill would’ve been enough to make sitting outside uncomfortable, but running felt good.

  A gust full of pink sakura petals billowed up from behind him. He watched them swirl in beautiful circles all about him, tracing strange and fleeting patterns in the air.

  This felt odd, but it took him a moment to realize why. Sakura petals? But it’s the Fall! Look at the red leaves!

  Then, he remembered it wasn’t the Fall. It was the Spring, of course.

  Slowing to a halt, eyes flicking back and forth from pink petals to red leaves, he frowned. This makes no sense. This is not real!

  Unlike Mercune, Proto didn’t go into a prophetic frenzy at this point and conjure a series of visions. He just woke up.

  It felt odd that he was having his own dreams again, after so many months without them at Somnus’ Palace. Absently, he wondered why that had changed. But the only answer he got was the dreamy wistfulness of Longing for the Past, wafting from the speakers of his CRT T.V.

  Welp, time for work. And, alas, that meant A/B testing, not visiting dreams.

  He tossed off his sheets, climbed out of bed, washed up, got dressed, and shuffled out of the house. He did all this half-consciously, moving about in an energy-conserving daze. As he ambled down the road, he almost felt like he were sleepwalking.

  He was halfway to the office when he remembered: It’s Saturday! What are you doing, Slow Bro?

  Nodding grimly at no one in particular, he turned around and headed home. Spring’s breezes blew in his face. A bug bounced off his forehead.

  Proto decided he was going to spite the world and be productive today.

  The first thing he did when he got home was to book a flight to Dubai next month. He’d waffled for days over whether to do so. It was possible he’d get there and have no way to meet with Fyrir, making the whole trip pointless.

  On the other hand, he could at least try to visit that lab Mercune had mentioned—Wraithing Research Center, she’d called it. Maybe he’d see something useful there, some clue about what he ought to do in Mercune’s dream. After all, the world’s future would be determined by his actions in Mercune’s dream, and Mercune’s future would be at that lab.

  Proto wasn’t worried about the price of the flight. Soon, he’d be getting into a body-destroying car accident. If he ever woke up, he’d be in a flame-ravaged world that had no use for old dollar bills.

  He wasn’t worried about missing work either. It’s not like traveling would interfere with any of the truly important A/B testing work that Proto was doing—that is, his A/B testing in Mercune’s dream each night. As for his other work, who cared?

  And while I’m in Dubai, maybe I can stop by a cosplay convention at the consulate. He smiled in recollection of old Fyrir’s dream.

  Having booked a flight and thus done something productive with his day—or at least, a half hour of it—Proto grabbed a grey controller in self-satisfaction and unpaused Illusion of Gaia. He was pretty far into the game now. Maybe I can beat this today.

  It was afternoon and he was getting close to doing so when, for the second time that day, he remembered something important that he’d forgotten: The concert! With Muse Concert Girl!

  He recalled Black’s invitation earlier this week: “There’s a concert I want to go to this Saturday. About ten, twelve bands. The kind we used to listen to. It’s up on that mountain past the old power station. . . . And I think I owe you a ticket. What do you think, Moo?”

  He’d agreed, she’d e-mailed him the ticket and offered to drive, and they’d set a time. That time was—he checked his watch—in fifteen minutes.

  Proto blinked twice.

  Then, he hit pause and scrambled to his dresser. He dug through old rock T-shirts he hadn’t worn in years, found the one he was looking for, and slipped into it. Still fits!

  He mussed up his hair the way he’d worn it in college, before he’d gotten a job and had to make it look shorter than it was. Still looks great!

  He found his old skinny jeans and squeezed into them, strained to button the button, and looked in the mirror. Still . . . hm.

  He studied the legging-like shape of the pre-faded denim. Lifting a leg, he saw how it ripped slightly at all the spots where it couldn’t handle its own tightness. He stared a moment in deep thought.

  Proto took off his pants. Time passes! Things change for a reason! He put on some normal jeans and was ready.

  Which was good, because just as he was buttoning them—without any struggle, mind you—a knock came at the door.

  He took a quick look in the mirror, then frowned. Not quite right. He adjusted his hair for a moment, then nodded. Ahh. The perfect muss.

  The next knock was more strident. He hurried over and opened the door.

  The girl peering up at him had naturally narrow hazel eyes, but they were widened with eyeliner. Her red hair tumbled down a brown T-shirt ripped to a tanktop, which said, in big retro lettering, “In Through the Out Door.” The tanktop didn’t quite reach her cutoff jean shorts, which were as tight as those Proto had cast away. Probably tighter.

  She looked youthful—no, she was Youth. The lively Youth that everyone dreamed of having, and having forever, but then lost before they’d found it. It always slipped away too soon, conspiring with the years.

  Somehow, she was back in front of him, unchanged, even after everything else in the world had changed.

  Proto realized he was smiling dumbly at her.

  “What the F, Moo? You look like you ate the wrong brownie.” Black’s brow was inclined skeptically, but her cheeks had curved up a bit. “You forget I was coming?”

  Sheesh, all this Youth stuff was making him act like a teenager. He shook his head to clear the pixie powder, and tried to blink away the stars and moonbeams.

  “You think I’m wearing this ripped old T-shirt since I forgot you were coming?” he managed. It was the shirt he’d worn to their Muse concert, all those years ago.

  “Why not? Ripped old rock T-shirts are all I wear,” she shrugged. “Glad to see it’s survived the last eight years, six months, and twenty-three days.”

  Huh. She really did remember. She wasn’t just faking it.

  He realized he was smiling again and forced a smart expression. “You’re here early.” It was a dullard’s greeting, but it beat dumb silence.

  Black shrugged. “Figured you’d want me to be. Leave a bit of spare time before we have to leave.” She met his gaze, her lips parting, her eyes sparkling. “You gonna invite me in?”

  Stolen story; please report.

  Proto blinked. He opened his mouth and searched her face, but didn’t find any words there.

  She threw back her red head and laughed. “Get in the car, you boy. As they say, ‘Listen to music first, make music later.’”

  “A week later?” questioned Proto.

  “You remembered!” she exclaimed with mocking delight, seizing his hand playfully. “Some remember their first kiss after the last dance. Others, their first something something on my aunt’s basement couch.”

  “Eight years, six months, and sixteen days ago,” he confirmed lightly.

  “Fifteen days and seventeen hours,” she corrected, eyes gleaming.

  Now, her fingers were sliding along his fingers. Like they were two teenagers again, sitting on the couch as a movie played, side-by-side, staring at the screen but oblivious to it, because through the heated haze of their thoughts, only one thought was . . .

  Releasing his hand, Black shook her head, seemingly blinking away her own stars and moonbeams. “Get in the car, Moo. We gotta get gas. I pay, you pump.”

  “Some things never change,” he observed. She’d had a good summer job, in those days.

  “Damn right.”

  Entering the car, they settled into the burgundy vinyl, turned up the Led Zeppelin, rolled down the windows—yes, rolled! mused Proto, admiring the old knob—and were off.

  They’d been on the road about twenty minutes when Proto’s phone buzzed. Lifting it, he saw that he’d received a text from Red.

  Glancing at Black—she seemed to be watching the road but was wearing sunglasses—he casually leaned a little sidelong and read:

  “Proto! I wanted to ask you a question. In retrospect, it’s sort of obvious, and I probably should’ve asked you before now.”

  A nervous tingle seeped through Proto. He didn’t know what this meant, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to. Then, the next text came:

  “Will you come to tomorrow’s cosplay convention with me?! And Ausrine. I can get you a ticket. No VIP pass, sadly. But we can slum it together! Let me know.”

  Ah. That wasn’t bad. Just a bit surprising. He hadn’t realized the convention was so soon. It also never had occurred to him to go to that convention himself.

  But why not? It was an obvious choice. The practical benefit was, he could learn more about Mercune from Ausrine, who’d also be there. And the personal benefit was a fun day with Red.

  Of course, Ausrine and Mannus had to have their car ride together that day, somehow or other. He still wasn’t clear on how that’d happen, and why Ausrine wouldn’t be riding with Red.

  But that was fine. Flua-Sahng had told him the car ride issue was resolved. Whatever that resolution was, Proto could avoid interfering with it by arranging his own ride and meeting Red at the convention. Maybe an Uber or something.

  Pondering his reply, he started to type, “Go slumming with Blue? Sounds tubular.”

  Then, he noticed he still didn’t have cell service. He’d been going in and out of service for several minutes now, and he likely would be for the rest of their drive. When he sent texts at times like this, they weren’t delivered half the time, even if they said they had been. The joys of living near mountains.

  Proto decided to send his reply later. Maybe they’d have Wi-Fi at the concert.

  “You know my favorite part of old car rides?” Black asked Proto.

  “A burger and fries were a dollar instead of eight dollars?” he suggested.

  “Yes, that,” she agreed. “But also, we didn’t have phones, so we had to talk.”

  His lips curved up. “Alright, alright. No phone for the rest of the drive.”

  “Good call,” she affirmed.

  As Proto pocketed the phone, he saw Red had sent him one more text: “By the way, tomorrow’s a Sunday, Mister, so don’t say you have work and embarrass us both!” He had to suppress both a wince and a smile.

  Meanwhile, Black’s gaze returned from the rear view mirror to the road ahead. “You know, that’s my favorite thing about being at a bar all day? It’s the one place left where people usually talk like humans. And not just stare at their phones. Or say fake things like corporate robots.”

  “You know in the Middle Ages, they drank beer with every meal?” remarked Proto.

  “Ugh. I forgot how nerdy you were.” Black wrinkled her nose. “Still, that’s a good point. Maybe that’s why they always seemed so merry.”

  “‘The only value in this valueless world is what you share with someone when you’re drunk,’” said Proto.

  Even Black had to grin. “Well said, Moo. I think I’m going to use that at my bar.”

  “How did you buy a bar, anyway?” asked Proto. “My net worth is six figures below zero.”

  “Because instead of studying statistics in an overpriced dorm and serving bad food to rich kids at a university café, I studied rock in a shitty apartment and worked double shifts at a bar and got great tips from drunk guys.”

  Technically, Proto had never lived in a dorm, but he decided not to correct her. “Ah. Well done, Karen.”

  “Bad choice, Porno! Don’t break the truce.”

  The road wound from the sprawling green exurbs into the rocky and wooded hills, and the white spires of Atlean University’s North Campus gleamed on the horizon. With the windows down and Up Around the Bend playing, Proto had a realization: This is nice. Not just this specific moment. Everything that’d happened since he’d woken up a week ago. Life itself, I guess.

  “Who knows?” Black was musing. “Maybe after the concert, we can stop by some diner and get silver-dollar pancakes. Like old times. Maybe you can eat twenty of them again, like when . . . ”

  As she recounted this story, Proto found himself thinking about life more broadly. Back at Somnus’ Palace, he’d wondered what had made his life there so satisfying. Was it the way he’d learnt to “live life like a dream,” chasing what he longed for without an undue fear of consequences? Or was it the specific friends he’d made there—had he just gotten lucky?

  Proto still wasn’t sure. Maybe he’d changed, maybe not. Either way, he’d sure gotten lucky again.

  “ . . . and then maybe you’ll get lucky,” Black finished. “What do you think?”

  Proto blinked and looked at her. Hearing your own thoughts echoed to you has a way of scattering them, as a voice’s resonance at just the right tone will shatter a mirror.

  After meeting his gaze for a moment, the red-haired girl smirked. “You weren’t listening, were you! Guess it’s not your lucky day.”

  “Hey, uh, just a minute now,” managed Proto.

  “A minute? Nah, try again in eight years,” the cool-faced girl suggested, lowering her shades against the sun.

  “That’s quite a jump from a week!” he observed, alarmed.

  “That’ll teach you not to listen to me!” she admonished calmly.

  “I was just, um, enjoying the music,” he protested. “Temptation Eyes. Great song.”

  Yes, part of him was alarmed, but another part wanted to smile. Life at Somnus’ Palace had been great, but the life right in front of him had lots to offer too.

  “Well, keep enjoying, I guess!” She shook her head reprovingly. “Sometimes, the best things in life are right in front of you, and you miss them since you’re up in the clouds!”

  Once again, the way her words echoed his thoughts was jarring. But he kept his focus this time. “As far as I can tell, one of the best things is still right here.”

  She inclined an eyebrow at him.

  He double-gunned her.

  A chuckle slipped from Black. “Alright, you brownnosing shitface. You win.” She paused, then glanced at him. “As I said, we can try the claw vending machine, like old times, and you can try to win me a stuffie. And maybe you’ll get lucky.” She smiled sweetly. “Sound good?”

  It took Proto a moment to wrap his head around this.

  Then, he sighed. “Sounds like a plan. Can’t wait.”

  “Don’t sound so excited!” Black beamed. “As they say, there’s a prize at the end for all comers.” Her lips quirked up, and her ensuing murmur was barely audible. “Or at least, for a funny one with shitty clothes and a nice face.”

  Proto looked at her, doubting he’d just heard right. “What’s that?”

  “I said, you have nice taste. Temptation Eyes is nice,” she explained. “By the Grass Roots. Hmph, they’re about as ‘grassroots’ as a golfing green. Totally corporate! Invented by suits! But still a great band, I can admit. I’m nothing if not honest. And a tight package.”

  He blinked. “What?”

  “You have hearing problems, Proto? I said I’m honest and my height’s average.”

  “Ah.” Proto shook his head and smiled. “Yeah, I’m a fan of height-averages.”

  “As you should be!” Black’s face was straight, but her coolly low sunglasses didn’t quite hide the sparkle in her eye. “Nice taste.” She patted his face.

  And on they drove, as Temptation Eyes gave way to The Boys of Summer. The sun journeyed westward, and they chased it there.

  “Speaking of which,” remarked Proto, “this is a great playlist. But why’s it repeating already? What’s up with Spotify? Not getting service out here?”

  “Because the CD’s repeating,” she said. “It’s the old kind, with like fifteen songs. Not like the ones we used to stuff with a zillion low-quality MP3s.”

  “Ah.” Proto felt mildly amused. “I’m curious what possessed you to burn a CD this decade.”

  “Well, I’m not sure,” she answered. “But maybe it’s cause I was making a mixtape.”

  Proto looked at her. He tilted his head.

  “Yes, it’s for you,” she mumbled.

  His lips curved up.

  She blushed and scowled. “You suggested it! God, I’m so Gen X. Late-stage Gen X.”

  Then, she reached into her glove box and handed him a cassette. It was labeled, Moo 2.

  “I figured you’d want the real deal,” she explained. “But my car can’t play this. Some moron replaced the cassette player before I bought it. So I had to burn a CD too.”

  Proto stared at the cassette and the girl holding it toward him—her arm slim and sleeveless, her hazel eyes blinking, a little wider than usual.

  He felt like some young, woodland creature emerging from hibernation in a cave, who’s just learnt for the first time that Spring is a season. Something that warmly returns, and never leaves forever.

  “Well, take it already!” chided Black, her face flushing from pink to red. “Or don’t, I guess. You can just like what you like on Spotify, or YouTube Red, or whatever it is now.

  Staring at her, Proto reached for her withdrawing hand and clasped it, as well the cassette. “I’ll take it.”

  Black was quiet for a moment. “Well, start with the cassette, and then we’ll talk.” Her eyes were still on the road, but her fingers slid along his, up and down. “Talk, or what-have-you.”

  “Talk and make music?” suggested Proto. “Lots and lots of . . . cassettes?”

  “That comes with the package,” she murmured mischievously.

  “What?” he asked.

  “I said, my height’s average!”

  Proto tilted back his head and laughed.

  And the winds billowed in through rolled-down windows, whistling in their ears, and new leaves burgeoned in the Springtime air, and the sun made that life green and vibrant.