Something? Or Someone? A pair of red-and-purple wings fluttered in Proto’s recollection.

  “Enjoying yourself in La-La Land, Proto?” Black waved in his face. “That’s fine. The lead singer and I will be there too, la-la-ing together.” She gestured at the skinny blond Cobain lookalike.

  “Quiet, you! You’ve already got your big strong body.” Himari thumbed her toward Proto. “Well, your body, anyway.”

  “Why does everyone feel the need—?” groused Proto.

  “Quiet, you!” Himari interrupted. “You’ve got a nice face, and you’ve got a nice body and face,” she declared, gesturing at Proto and Black in turn. “And if you need a big strong body, there’s always that one.” She nodded toward the mosher, who’d sat up and was staring blearily at nothing.

  “Now!” concluded Himari. “Make yourself useful and body forth some body for me. Like him, for example.” She pointed at Cobain Lookalike.

  “Right? Right? I’m glad we agree on that,” replied Black, admiring Cobain Lookalike side-by-side with Himari. “Skinny is back! The future is the past!”

  Oh, you have no idea. Proto recalled how he’d been two years older a week ago.

  “Yes! We’ll bring skinny back. Us and Ozempic,” Himari affirmed. “It’s us two against the times. We can be like a band. Or a duet!”

  “If so, we need a name,” said Black. “Through Thicc and Thin, maybe? Or how about, Unvolumptuous!” She beamed at Proto.

  “The Lean Mean Team!” offered Himari.

  “PB and No J!” suggested Black. “Or, Wasted and Waistless!”

  “Sub-Zero?” proposed Himari.

  “Oh, that one’s cool,” said Black.

  “‘Cool.’ Ba-dum-tsh!” exclaimed Himari. “But it’s true, zero’s too big. I wear kids’ sizes!”

  “So do I! They’re the only ones that fit right.” Black gestured at her skin-tight shirt, which stopped above her belly button.

  “But should Sub-Zero be the band name or the first album?” pondered Himari.

  “Tough call. Let’s table that,” suggested Black. “Hm, how about Skinny, Mini, Sassy, Sinny? Too girl-bandy?”

  “No no, it’s good!” Himari assured her. “Or . . . White and Yellow, Tight and Mellow?”

  Black giggled. “I applaud you. I can do no better. You win.”

  “There’s only one serious problem raised by that name,” noted the small GSI.

  “What’s that?” asked Black.

  “We’re both tight, but I’m not really mellow,” said Himari.

  “True. But it’s so close, right?” replied Black. “Sometimes you just gotta go with it!

  “Maybe. Hm.” Himari rubbed her chin and thought.

  “How about Tubular?” offered Proto.

  “Huh. Tubular,” Reks repeated absently, still sketching in his sketch pad.

  Meanwhile, Black and Himari were staring at Proto.

  “Well, that kind of works,” Himari finally said. “I guess.”

  “Is that a pun?” asked Black. “Like . . . we’re tubes? Cause tubes are skinny? And we’re also tubular cause we’re cool?”

  “I mean, tube dresses are basically all I can wear to the club,” Himari pointed out. “Try finding those in kids’ sizes!”

  “Getting easier by the year,” observed Black.

  “I know, right? Sad,” sighed Himari. “Well, sad for the world, happy for sub-zeroes like me. And for Porno.” She faced him abruptly and beamed. “Yep, that’s right! I remember you, Porno!”

  “Oh, for F’s sake,” he complained. He’d really hoped that joke had died.

  “We’ll add Tubular to the list, for Porno’s sake and for F’s sake,” said Black. “Maybe Tubular can be an album. Or a single. Or a B-side.”

  “Yes. We’ll wear tube dresses on the back cover,” affirmed Himari.

  Black nodded. “Yep. Gotta get eyes on our albums somehow. Even if it’s just the backside.”

  Himari tittered. “The backside. In a tube dress. Teehee.”

  Proto sighed. Well, so much for tubular.

  Black rounded on him. “You sigh about us in tube dresses?! Hmph! You and Mister Big Strong Body here can go be tubular together”—she waved at the mosher—“while us Sub-Zeroes go Skinny Mini it up with some other dudes.”

  “Cold as ice,” lamented Proto. “Sub-zero? She’s arctic! Antarctic! Melt all that ice, and there’s nothing there but more ice!”

  “Oh, I can be warm too.” Black touched two fingers to a hole in Proto’s ratty old shirt and slid them lightly downward. “Hot, even.”

  Himari sighed. “Now I’m the one sighing. But it’s only cause I’m jel-jel. Heaven, why don’t you give me these things?”

  “You want some whisky?” offered Glen. He’d been standing nearby and watching the band this whole time. “I find it helps with that.”

  “Helps with what?” asked Himari.

  “I don’t know, but I’m confident it will help.” Glen gave a winning smile beneath his bushy beard, holding the flask out with a flannel-covered arm.

  “ . . . fine, I’ll take it!” Himari told Heaven. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

  Glen tilted his head at her. “What?”

  “Nothing,” Himari sweetly replied. “But . . . have you considered shaving?”

  Glen frowned at her. “Have you considered biting me?” He walked away, stroking his bushy beard.

  Himari stomped her foot and sighed again. “Well, guess it’s just me and my lonesome! And Dimitri. Though I’m pretty sure he’s cheating on me with a book.”

  “Hey, want to see something cool?” Reks approached Proto and showed him the sketchbook. It was a picture of some squid monster with tubular tentacles, fighting a scale-mailed, greatsword-wielding Helen. “‘Tubular’ gave me the idea.”

  “Not bad!” admired Proto. The monster reminded him vaguely of those squid creatures he’d seen with Wentsworth and Uberta.

  “Right? Anyway, that metal band is back, whatever its name is, so I’m off.” Reks ambled away, drawing as he walked, stumbling from time to time.

  Meanwhile, the mellow indie band had just finished its encore.

  Black scanned the other bands, then checked her watch. “Next good show’s in fifteen. If we hurry, we can get a good spot.” She stood on her tiptoes and stretched, so her shirt slid up alarmingly high on her torso, and pointed over the crowd toward a stage a hundred yards away. “It’s right over there.”

  Well, maybe “alarmingly” isn’t the right word, Proto mused happily.

  When he didn’t respond to Black, she glanced at him. “Also, Moo, why are you smiling dumbly at me?”

  “Well. That thing you said earlier about throwing your bra,” he recalled. “Did you already . . . ?”

  Black looked down at her shirt and blinked. “Oh for F’s sake.” She fixed her shirt, then swatted his head and strode away, as he chortled at her back.

  Then, she waggled her hips ostentatiously a few times. And Proto just laughed harder, following her through the mass of humanity.

  “That’s fine!” Himari called from behind them. “You two lovebirds have fun! I’ll be over here. Just little old Himari. Mid-twenties Himari!” She sniffed.

  “I’m here too,” the mosher noted. “If you’re interested.”

  Himari spat on him. “Buta ni shinjuu!” she cried. “Buta ni shinjuu!”

  And off went Black and Proto, beckoned along by strains of far off music—or at least, the squeals of guitars being tested by audio technicians, and those random shrieks of delight you hear at large and noisy events. It was all music to their ears.

  Of course, the fact that Black had clasped Proto’s hand and was pulling him along, her red hair swishing and her hips swaying with each step, also helped with that harmonious feeling.

  They didn’t quite snag front-row seats, but they got close enough. There were always a lot of competing melodies and moods at these events, but if you got close enough, euphony drowned out the dissonance.

  By the end of the set, they were very close indeed. Black had leaned her head on Proto’s shoulder for so long, with his arm around her back, that it was sore and achy now. But it was the best kind of achy soreness possible.

  Well, almost. His lips quirked up.

  But, as they say, all good things must come to an end. Even the most tubular of days must groove to a conclusion.

  Thus, the sun waned westward, music waned to wistful chatter, and Proto eventually found himself back in the car beside Black. The windows were down, Don’t Fear the Reaper was playing, and he was tapping his hand to the beat of the cowbell. His ears were ringing still, and he felt warm and cool at once.

  Neither of them felt quite ready for the day to end. So when they saw a sign for a diner near the old power station, they exchanged a look and didn’t even need words.

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  They pulled off at the exit.

  They drove about ten minutes past fields of swaying barley. All they passed were barns and farmhouses, a gas station with a single pump, the grey tower of the power station, and a sign: Welcome to Belladrengr, Pop. 1,537.

  Eventually, a lone and homely diner came into view, along with another sign: Try Our Cheesesteak with Homegrown Peppers!

  Black and Proto shared another look. “Perfect,” both declared at the same time.

  They entered the diner. There, they ate, drank, recalled being merry, and were satisfied.

  “Ahh. I didn’t think I could hold that much,” mused Black, admiring her empty plate. It’d been full of silver-dollar pancakes a half hour ago. “But I’m pleased to learn I can.”

  Proto nodded agreeably. “It’s like it filled a place I never knew was empty.”

  Black’s eyes widened and flicked up to him.

  He tried to keep an innocent face, but his lips curved up.

  “Well,” she finally said, cheeks a little pink. “It’s nice to know that if I make some cheesy remark, you’ll still be remembering it, word for word, eight years from now.”

  “I promise you, the reason I’ve spent eight years recalling that isn’t that it was cheesy,” Proto assured her.

  Black blinked and blushed even more now. She unnecessarily brushed a strand of hair off her face, only to have it fall right back again. Her eyes were fixed on his, seemingly searching in vain for a response.

  This was all rather uncharacteristic of her.

  “But you’re right!” he went on, waving lightly. “I’ll be remembering lots of cheesy things from today. Like this, for example.” He pointed to his last bite of cheesesteak.

  “God, you’re like a walking dad joke,” she managed to scoff through smiley embarrassment. “Cheese piled on cheese. A wheel of cheese.”

  “Maybe, but I’m not the only one,” said Proto. “What do you call that cheese that’s hard on the outside but all soft and gooey inside?”

  Black shrugged. “Late-stage Gen X?”

  “Good enough,” he laughed quietly, extending a hand. “Good enough.”

  Black took the hand, her lips curving up.

  Ahh, this is delicious, isn’t it? came the voice of Miss Beatrice, his fifth-grade teacher.

  Yes, delectable, agreed the voice of Somnus mixed with a lawyerly and middle-aged Proto. A little cheese goes a long way.

  I wonder how long till they . . . mm. You know, wondered Miss Beatrice.

  Not so long now, I think, answered Somnus-Proto Lawyer. Anyhow, while we’re waiting, what do you say we . . . mm. You know.

  Ooh! replied Miss Beatrice.

  First’s name, could I please have some privacy? complained Proto.

  Let’s give the young man some privacy. He’s earned it, Somnus-Proto Lawyer obliged him. After all, it’s not long now till his delightful days in this breathing world come to a crashing end, blasted to smithereens by a 212 horsepower—

  Proto shooed the voices away like an antipsychotic.

  “Moo, you’re smiling dumbly at me again,” observed Black. “That’s the third time today.”

  He waved dismissively. “Get used to it.”

  She swatted his head, lips curving up.

  A moment later, she frowned. “Am I smiling dumbly at you? Sheesh, you’ve made me so uncool.”

  “It’s okay, being uncool’s cooler,” he assured her.

  She scoffed; then, meeting his eyes, smiled dumbly. “How’s that?”

  “Perfect. By the way, you’ve got something in your eye,” he confirmed. “I think it’s rainbows and moonbeams.”

  She nodded grimly. “That’s who I am now. Not Karen, not Black. Call me Rainbow!”

  “Moo and Rainbow,” he observed. “Not the coolest team. But certainly tubular.”

  She scoffed and smiled dumbly again, her fingers sliding along his.

  Aw, cooed Miss Beatrice.

  Proto shooed her away again. Don’t make me go all clozapine on you!

  Teehee. The voice in his head scurried off.

  By the time they’d left the diner and driven back to town, Proto was feeling rather sleepy. The sun had just sunk past the skyline, and the evening star was chasing its dwindling glow.

  As a result, Proto only dimly saw the sights rushing past as they drove by: An old station wagon, with a backward-facing back seat and magnolia petals on its roof. Black’s Rock and Red’s Starbucks. That butcher shop with the nice rump. A sign for tomorrow’s cosplay convention. The Arboretum. His old childhood home, then Yemos’ house. Some pink petals, blown from a cherry blossom tree. A pair of running shoes, tied together and thrown over a power line. A yard sale sign on a telephone pole. A truck full of red lava rocks for gardens. A huge tree—

  Proto’s head spun back to that yard sale sign. He only caught a half-second glimpse of it before it vanished.

  “Whoa, WTF?” frowned Black, glancing at his wide-eyed face. “You see the ghost of your Great Aunt Fanny?”

  He barely heard her. Recollected images flashed through his head: hazy images that Somnus had shown him on the day of his Saturn Return; images of the events leading up to his accident, when he’d been out running and stricken by a passing car. Among them was a yard sale sign.

  Earlier this week, he’d tried to figure out when his accident would occur. In doing so, he’d thought about that sign: A yard sale sign on a telephone pole along his running route. He couldn’t recall what date it’d said. But at least he knew now, if he ever saw that yard sale sign, his time was likely short.

  It echoed in his head: Time is short. Time is short.

  But how was that possible? His accident wouldn’t happen until Halloween. Somnus had shown it to him—he’d been running, and he’d seen two groups of costumed teenagers. One group might be a freak chance, but two? It had to be Halloween.

  Would this yard sale sign really survive from now until Halloween? That seemed unlikely. It was mid-Spring! The sign was just unlaminated paper. Maybe the same house would be having another yard sale near Halloween, and they’d just be printing the same sign again. That would explain it. That would make sense, right?

  For a moment, Proto tried to reassure himself that this was right.

  Then, the realization came crashing down on him like a 212-horsepower automobile. The cosplay convention. Tomorrow.

  He stared with wide eyes out the window. How could he have forgotten about that? Half the major events in his life since waking up in Somnus’ Palace had touched on cosplay conventions, somehow or other. How could he have failed to make that connection?

  Halloween? You moron. Of course those teens’ costumes were for a cosplay convention!

  “Moo?” Black looked concerned. They’d stopped at a red light. “Should I pull over?”

  “Haha, no,” he managed weakly. “Just smiling dumbly again.”

  “Dumb, maybe,” she replied. “But that’s not a smile.”

  “What? Sure it is.” He tried to grin lightheartedly, but couldn’t seem to make his face do so.

  Tomorrow was the cosplay convention. Tomorrow was his accident.

  He’d been sure he’d have most of this year, at least, to prepare for Mercune’s dream—to prepare to save the future. “Learn what must be learnt!” Flua-Sahng had said. He’d been sure he’d have months upon months to do so.

  Instead, as it turned out, he would have just a week. And of that week, less than a day was left. He’d spent the rest on concerts and fireworks and whisky tastings and Illusion of Gaia.

  “Proto,” said Black, “the last time I saw a ‘smile’ like that, my brother was getting his tooth pulled.”

  “Must be the ghost of my Great Aunt Fanny,” he replied.

  Black stared at him for a long time. Then, the light went green, and she faced the road ahead.

  When she finally spoke again a minute later, her voice was uncharacteristically quiet. “I hope you had a good time today.”

  Proto looked at her—those hazel eyes, staring tiredly forward.

  Like fog at dawn, his haze of dark thoughts melted into dewy sympathy. “Black, I had a day I’ll still be remembering years from now.” Wherever I am.

  “Good. Because a minute ago, you weren’t sounding very authentic.” Her lips curved up wryly. “Believe me, I can tell! I’m late-stage Gen X!”

  Proto laughed helplessly, if a bit weakly.

  “Yeah, that’s better.” She eyed him sidelong. “I think.”

  Maybe this evening would’ve ended differently, if Proto hadn’t seen that yard sale sign. Earlier, it certainly had felt like today might end differently. But it didn’t feel like that sort of evening anymore.

  Proto directed Black to his house, and she dropped him off. Their farewells were just waves and words. She drove away, and he walked into his empty home.

  Heading to his room, he stared at the blank CRT T.V. for a while. It occurred to him that he had only hours until his last practice visit to Mercune’s dream.

  He still hadn’t learnt how to avert the end of all life in a thousand years. The “void,” Flua-Sahng had called it. On the contrary, all he’d done was accelerate the end of the world by 700 years or so, and then move it back exactly where it’d started. Now, in mere hours, it’d be too late for him to learn anything more here in the breathing world.

  What a week, he thought bitterly. What time is it anyway? He checked his phone—then blinked. There was a new message from Red.

  “Proto, I know you saw this earlier~! Did you forget that it says Typing when you’re typing? ^_^ … >_> … <_< … ”

  Shit! He’d forgotten to respond to Red’s text at the concert. Anxiety surged through him.

  Then, an incredulous laugh slipped out. Here he was—hours from being stricken into a coma, hours from having failed to “learn what must be learnt” to save life and the future—and he was worried that he’d left Red on Read for half a day!

  Proto opened the text and pondered how to reply, shaking his head at how “Proto” he was being.

  “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,” her earlier text had said.

  He stared at it a while. Then, he deleted his draft reply: “Go slumming with Blue? Sounds tubular.”

  Instead, he sent the following: “Can’t, alas! Heading out of town tomorrow. Save me a black blackeye, okay Blue? v_^ … <_> … ^_> … ~!”

  He got the Typing notification in response almost instantly, but it took ten minutes to get her reply: “Alas. kk, I’ll have it waiting for you. BTW, you should get those eyes checked out. They’re looking a little iffy!”

  Then, fifteen seconds later: “By the way, how do you like it, Slick? Tyypiiiinnnnggg.”

  He laughed quietly and closed his eyes.

  Absently, he recalled that he’d booked a flight to Dubai this morning. Welp, so much for that.

  Not that the wasted money mattered. By the time he woke—if he woke—fiat currency would be valueless. Except maybe bottlecaps. He should go buy some bottlecaps.

  His lips quirked up, despite everything. You F’ing nerd.

  Proto spent a couple hours planning out his visit to Mercune’s dream tonight. Then, he took out his tracksuit, stared at it for a while, and laid it out to wear tomorrow. Finally, he climbed into bed to sleep.

  But no sleep came to Proto. Who could blame him? He’d be visiting the dream realm soon enough, like it or not. And he wasn’t looking forward to the trip there.

  That wasn’t the main thing keeping him awake, though.

  No, what was keeping him awake was the realization that, once he got to Somnus’ Palace, he’d forget everything that’d happened this last week. After all, when he’d first visited Somnus’ Palace, he hadn’t remembered this last week—this week of being a seer for Flua-Sahng. And he might never remember it again.

  “You can’t be one of Somnus’ visitors and one of my seers at the same time. You can’t remember your seer-visions when you’re a visitor. If you did, you could thwart Fate!” Flua-Sahng had said.

  And, Cryptic Queen of Heaven though she may be, she always told the truth.

  Proto stared blankly at the ceiling for a while. Then, he got up. No need to sleep tonight. I’ll just take a looonnnggg nap tomorrow, he mused blackly.

  He walked over to his old Ikea cassette rack and, after searching for a moment, found an old tape with a black label on it: Karen. His lips quirked up wistfully. He’d started it eight years ago and meant to finish it. He’d even planned out the remaining songs while he was with Black today, after she’d given him the Moo 2 mixtape.

  Well, guess that’s not going anywhere. Life’s short, huh?

  . . . still, why not? Wasting time one way was as good as another. At least doing this might make him feel life was meaningful, even if his hadn’t been.

  Using his old tape player-recorder, he went through the tedious process of copying songs onto the cassette, one by one. Then, using the only marker he could find, a red Sharpie, he added to the tape’s label: Karen / Black.

  Smiling sadly at the mixtape, wondering about all the things that could’ve happened in his life but hadn’t, he slid it into the cassette rack right beneath the Moo and Moo 2 mixtapes.

  He’d hoped this would leave him feeling ready to sleep, but it hadn’t. So instead, he flicked on the SNES and started playing Illusion of Gaia.

  The sight lit a dim light in the void within him. It might just be a 16-bit game with pixelated sprite graphics. But it sure was better than thoughts of oblivion.

  He played for a long time. It was, if nothing else, a distraction—something that lured his mind from grave brooding into light musings.

  Man, SNES games were brutal! he found himself marveling. Over and over again, he had to reload, restarting a segment and trying something new. Some might be dissuaded by this. But for Proto, after spending a week visiting Mercune’s dream, failing over and over, it felt like par for the course.

  Then, he beat it. It was 2:12 a.m., and his thumb had started blistering. But he’d beaten it.

  Wistfully smiling, he watched the end credits roll by. Guess I did it, huh? Just took me a couple decades. Plus one week. Then, he waited awhile after the credits had finished. Guess that really is the end, huh?

  And yet he wasn’t ready for an end.

  Proto found himself reloading his saved game. He wandered aimlessly as though in a dream, doing again the things he’d done before. Who knows how long he might’ve gone, if he hadn’t heard the dreamy strains of Longing for the Past and paused to listen?

  Its reminiscent melody beckoned him backward through recollections: Today’s concert and diner with Black. His zombie encounter in the Arb and his rump eating with Red. The food and fireworks with Yemos, Mannus and Ausrine. His telemarketer call, followed by the whisky tasting. The bizarre meeting of Helen, Himari and Porno at Black’s Rock. His encounter outside the girl doctor’s office with two “V-friends till the world ends.” Waking up at home, so unexpectedly, and resolving to ask out that Starbucks barista—only to end up finding Muse Concert Girl at day’s end, more than eight years later. And, through it all, Longing for the Past.

  Who would have thought such little things could add up to so much? How was it possible for one week of life to hold so much life? Just one week.

  Tears ran down Proto’s face. His eyes slipped shut. And, for the second last time in a very long time, he slipped away into the realm of dreams.