Time passed. Proto’s daily visits with Astrid and occasionally Mayger became routine for him, but that didn’t make life dull. On the contrary, it just freed up more of his focus for all the little human things along the way: humor and friendships, and meaningful moments.

  And the occasional weirdness—for example, when that mustachioed man in the three-piece suit, named Wentsworth, came up to him and declared, “Your secret is ours, Proto! You can count on us!” He was a shadowseer who was obsessed with H.P. Lovecraft, according to Dahlia. And as far as Proto recalled, those were the first words the guy had ever spoken to him.

  All in all, it felt a little like high school; or, rather, as if working life had continued like high school. A working life where those around him behaved like humans, rather than soulless corporate robots mimicking humans. It felt like a family; not just a business calling itself a “family” to guilt employees into working longer hours and happily obeying its parental authority.

  Then again, maybe this was just another example of how Proto’s change in mentality had made life better. Maybe this sort of life had always been there, waiting for him, if he’d just gone out and made it his.

  In any event, his present life was good. As for the future, Dahlia’s shadowcasting had continued to show ominous but ambiguous scenes. That strange redness of the skies, streaking with lights, was appearing more and more often.

  What this meant, no one knew—at least, no one Proto talked to. They carried on their lives the same as always. Those fiery skies became like fire alarms at college dorms. They made you lose some sleep at first, but everyone got better at ignoring them after a while.

  Thus was Proto sitting calmly with Jet and Jag one morning, sipping from his black mug, when Lilac arrived at the table with a platter full of pastries.

  “Who’s that for?” Jag leaned toward it like a cat toward sushi.

  “Hello to you too,” she replied.

  “Who baked this exquisite spread?” asked Proto. “This confectionery cornucopia?”

  “That’s better.” Lilac held out the platter to let him take a pastry, then the others. “Save some for Paunch. Or soon you’ll look like him.”

  “Not me. I can’t gain weight from eating.” Jag patted his belly. “Special talent. Jet can confirm.”

  “I’d give up my taste in clothes, my Breath Tokens, my diligent competency, and my Euchre skills,” Jet nodded, “if I could have his special talent.”

  Proto supposed he had a bit of that special talent too. To be sure, he’d always exercised—mostly running and skiing—but not enough to earn the lean muscularity he’d somehow maintained since his high-school-athlete days, given all the greasy fast food he ate. Sometimes he woke up feeling sore, like he’d done a killer workout the day before, when in fact he’d just lounged around. This was odd, but he wasn’t complaining.

  Meanwhile, Astrid had approached the table, holding what looked to be half a freezer cheeseburger. It looked like she had something to say, judging by her focused face, but she didn’t want to interrupt.

  At least, not yet. She now was planting a hand on her hip, cocking her head and exhaling.

  “Even Paunch’s sweets aren’t this good,” observed Jag through a mouthful.

  “You should make more full meals, Lilac!” urged Jet. “It’s been years.”

  “Oh, I don’t think it’s been that long.” Lilac glanced at Proto. “Anyway, my range is nowhere near as broad as Paunch’s. Mostly just Provencal and Tuscan cuisine. And Kyoto, modern and traditional. And British meatpies. And—what?” She frowned at Proto, who’d begun laughing, followed by the others.

  Well, almost all the others. Astrid was rolling her eyes. She took a bite of her burger.

  It occurred to Proto that he hadn’t had a burger in a long time. Quadruple smashburgers had been one of his go-to lunches, back at his marketing job in the breathing world. He had good memories of sitting back in one of the restaurant’s padded booths, taking his first greasy bite, and letting his mind go warm and hazy. It was a good thing he’d gone running so often—he’d devoured those juicy, savory burgers all the time. In fact, eating one of them was among his very last waking memories, right before he’d gone running and . . .

  Proto blinked. Right before what? He’d seen the outlines of a memory in the corner of his mind’s eye. But when he’d focused on them, they’d disappeared.

  “What about you, Astrid?” Jag was asking, as she took another bite. “Do you cook?”

  Astrid, still rolling her eyes, froze and glanced at Proto. “A little,” she mumbled through her mouthful.

  “Like, what cuisines?” asked Jet.

  “ . . . I can make eggs a few ways. Scrambled, fried or . . . what’s it called. Sunny-side up,” replied the jumpsuited woman. She brushed her bouffant off her face.

  It was silent for a moment.

  “So, Lilac, tell us about food in Kyoto,” urged Jet.

  “Sure.” The pale woman began rattling off appetizing facts, absently running a hand through her long black hair. “So, I love kyou-zushi and all that,” she concluded. “But after a while, sometimes, I just want a meatpie. And, luckily, they have excellent meatpies at those covered arcades—”

  “What’s this about meatpies?” Dahlia now was strolling up in her flowery Victorian robe, her blonde hair flowing all over her back. “I make a mean meatpie! And cream pie.”

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  Astrid scowled, taking another fierce bite of her burger.

  “Do you?” replied Proto to the curvaceous bookworm. “You find time to cook between shadowcasting, reading every book in the world, playing cards, and outdrinking everyone here? Besides Somnus.”

  “Besides Somnus,” agreed Dahlia. “But yes, how could I not make time for cooking? The way to the heart is through the stomach!”

  Astrid scoffed audibly.

  “In fact,” the shadowseer went on, “I made Somnus install a cooking range, using those abyssal flames by the Shadowcaster. And my, does it work well! It gets hot down there. But a little heat never bothered me.”

  “Well, Madame Bartendress, perhaps a cookoff is in order!” declared Proto.

  Lilac sized Dahlia up. Then, she shrugged agreeably. “Always happy to support amateur competition.”

  Dahlia’s brow rose. Then, she turned to Proto. “If there’s a cookoff, I’ll be needing a nickname too. What, will it be Dahlia vs. Madame Bartendress? Unfair! Prejudicial! I won’t have it.”

  “Very well, Madame Shadowchef!” said Proto.

  “Mm. Very sinister,” observed Dahlia. “I’ll take it!”

  “You can leave me as ‘Astrid,’” the silvery-blue haired woman abruptly broke in. “But I’ll be competing too.”

  Everyone blinked and stared at her.

  “I thought you said . . . ” Jag began after a moment.

  He cut off at the sight of Astrid’s fiery violet glare. Her fingers had clenched halfway through her burger.

  “ . . . Very well, Madame Silverwear!” Proto threw up his arms. “A three-way it is!”

  “Silverware? Why . . . ?” Jag’s eyes followed Jet’s finger to the silvery grey she was wearing. “Ah.”

  Astrid’s face was flushed. But maybe that was just because she was realizing what she’d gotten herself into.

  “A battle for the ages!” enthused Jet. “Rule number one is, we get to try everything.”

  “No, that’s rule number seven,” noted Somnus. He’d just walked in beneath the painting of the old man. “Rule number one is, never give up on something genius because of the rules.”

  “Well, Lord of Dreams, this cookoff is genius, so we’re doing it even if it breaks your rules,” replied Jag.

  “You think I’d stop this?” asked Somnus. “And ruin the best cookoff since Louis XVI? What sort of Jacobin do you take me for?”

  Jet held out his arms welcomingly. “I don’t know what that means, but it’s good to have you with us.”

  “I thought it was funny, Somnus,” consoled Dahlia. “Let them eat cake! Baked by me.”

  “Oh, that’s sharp, Dahlia!” chuckled Somnus. “I’m glad one of you understands references from before the days of polyester and frozen food.”

  “Are you subtweeting me?” Astrid eyed her jumpsuit and freezer cheeseburger.

  “I don’t know what that means, but it bodes poorly for this cookoff,” replied Somnus.

  “At least your references aren’t all from the days of shoulder pad suits and Thundercats,” said Lilac.

  “Now who’s being subtweeted?” sighed Proto.

  “Enough of these birdbrained neologisms! You’re visitors of dreams, not teenage phone junkies,” admonished Somnus. “That is, visitors of dreams, a shadowseer, an oddjob assistant, and a provisional visitor.”

  “Is that from top to bottom?” asked Proto.

  “Hardly!” replied Somnus. “Visitors and shadowseers are very much on equal terms.”

  “ . . . hey,” said Jag.

  “Hello to you too, Oddjob Assistant,” said Somnus. “Speaking of which, Provisional Visitor,” he turned to Proto, “you won’t be a provisional visitor much longer. Your evaluation date is just around the corner!”

  “Speaking of which, Proto and I should be off to our visit,” Astrid broke in, finally saying what she’d come here to say. “We’re now late.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say so?” waved Somnus. “No points off for Proto. This falls on the mentor!”

  Rolling her eyes, Astrid stuffed her remaining burger in her mouth, grabbed Proto’s arm and dragged him away. She released him after they’d exited beneath the vast painting, then continued at a brisk pace, forcing him into a near-jog.

  “What do you know! I’m going to be a visitor soon,” declared Proto.

  “Maybe. But that’s not what Somnus said,” she replied.

  “What?”

  “He said you won’t be a provisional visitor much longer,” she said. “That will be true whether he approves or rejects you. And if he approves you, then you’ll have to decide what you want to do.”

  “So . . . what do you think my chances are, Miss Evaluator?” he asked. “I assume you have some insights on the matter.”

  She eyed him sidelong. “I’ve made my criticisms known to you. Consistently.” At his look of distress, her face softened. “But maybe I haven’t been as vocal about my other thoughts.”

  “Like what?” he said.

  She said nothing, but stared at him with wide violet eyes. They looked young.

  Then, she turned abruptly away. “You’ll find out at your evaluation, I suppose!”

  “Alright, alright, Miss Geode,” he said.

  She halted and faced him again. “What did you just call me?”

  “Rough and hard on the outside. But something very different shows through the cracks!” he observed.

  She blinked her violet eyes twice. “Oh, shut up,” she finally said, turning away and showing him a grey shoulder.

  He smiled. “Yep!”

  “Also, you’re ignoring the second part of what I said,” she murmured.

  “Huh?” Proto wasn’t sure what she meant.

  She shook her head. “Never mind.”

  “Oh. About me having to decide,” he remembered. “Like, I could decide to be a shadowseer or something? Or a bartender?”

  She looked away, her lips curved up. “Sure. Sure, those are possibilities.”

  “Yeah, not really feeling it. But we’ll see.” Proto walked a little further in silence, eying that look on her face. “It sounds like I might be misunderstanding something.”

  “What? You, misunderstand something?” Astrid replied. “Next you’ll be telling me that Somnus overdrank and Mayger overdressed.”

  “Or Astrid gratuitously burned the provisional visitor,” said Proto.

  “Or Hobo wore his tracksuit!” She gestured at him.

  He smiled and rolled his eyes. “So . . . what am I misunderstanding?”

  She looked wistfully at him, lips parting, then faced forward again. “Tomorrow’s winds will blow tomorrow.”

  “What?”

  “I said, save tomorrow for tomorrow!”

  And that was that. They continued in silence for a while down corridors of misty blue.

  A quiet yawn from Astrid drew his eyes. He saw that her cheeks were sagging and eyelids were droopy. Another yawn followed about thirty seconds later.

  “Someone need a nap?” he asked lightly.

  “Someone needs a break,” she replied. “Not all of us do just one thing each day.”

  “You’ve been helping Somnus a lot, right?” he said. “With whatever that situation is involving Yemos, the reddening skies, and so forth?”

  “Yes. As I told you the other day,” she answered.

  Proto frowned. “You most certainly did not tell me that, the other day,” he wanted to say.

  “Important business?” he instead asked.

  “Oh, just about a thousand times more serious than normal dream visits. Which I’m continuing to do,” she said. “And, in the meantime, I’m helping a provisional visitor lose his ‘provisional.’ Maybe. So, yeah, I’m staying busy.”

  “Well, why don’t you take a break?” Proto reached into his pocket and held out the two Breath Tokens he’d gotten playing cards. “Have Mayger and Jet handle a couple days for you.”

  She stared at the Tokens. “Are you asking me for a favor? Or is this about the evaluation? I can’t change what I already told Somnus.”

  His face flushed. “No. You just looked tired.” The arm he was holding out sank. “I mean, I still owe you two, right?” His lips curved up as he recalled that first day.

  “No. I was just doing my job,” she said quietly.

  He looked at her, hearing an odd note in her voice. Her lips were pressed in an expression of . . . guilt? Her eyes were narrowed upon the ground.

  Proto adopted a playful smile. “I know you’d prefer that I remain in your debt forever—!”

  “You know absolutely nothing!” she shouted.

  He blinked and slowed to a stop, crestfallen.

  She met his gaze. Her violet eyes were shimmering. Then, she quickly turned away and wiped her face.

  What is going on . . . ?