Habit tensed his legs for his upcoming landing in the misty blue corridors of Somnus’ Palace, and he readied his forward stride.

  But of course—he remembered an instant too late—that’s not where he was going. And when his legs kicked forward, all they kicked were bedsheets. A game controller went clattering to the floor.

  He blinked a few times blearily, then climbed to his feet and scanned his room. Something felt off. But the T.V. was still on, and the dreamy strains of Longing for the Past were still drifting from it quietly. Judging by the window’s grey dimness, dawn hadn’t quite arrived. That wasn’t surprising. He’d gone to bed early.

  The red rock, he abruptly remembered. Right. He reached into his tracksuit pocket.

  Sure enough, it wasn’t there. Nor was it in the bed, on the couch, or on the floor. It was gone.

  Or else he’d just dreamt it up, and it’d never existed to begin with.

  “I dream up everything else. Why not that?” he muttered. Was it possible he’d passed out after getting home last night, and he’d just dreamt of finding the rock in his tracksuit?

  No, not possible. His memories of changing from his blazer into his tracksuit must be real, as he was still wearing the tracksuit right now. And he’d found the rock at the same time. So how . . . ?

  After a moment of futile pondering, he shook his head. That didn’t matter right now. What mattered was, once again, Proto had to save the world. He would have to visit Mercune’s dream and, this time, steer it in the right direction. He just had to learn how. The problem was, he had limited time to do so and no idea where to start.

  Well, “no idea” might overstate it slightly. Proto had a vague sense of the Things That Mattered—the people, places and things that seemed central to how the future played out. Particularly Mercune, Fyrir, and that Fossil they had—the Fossil of Flua-Sahng. And, of course, the worldwide fiery pandaemonium that ensued after Fyrir’s fellow scientists tampered with that Fossil, loosing the Elements upon the world. It seemed certain he’d have to learn more about those things.

  But other, smaller things also nagged at Proto. For example, in Fyrir’s dream, why had he and Mercune been in Dubai? Did that matter? And Proto’s friend Yemos, and his brother Mannus and apparent girlfriend Ausrine—their names kept popping up. What was their role in all this? And what about their planned trip to that hollow tree with the Viking axe, which Emil had told him about?

  In short, Proto might know nothing, but at least he wasn’t entirely clueless.

  He decided to visit Yemos first and learn what he could learn there. This probably wasn’t the most promising option. But it was a lot simpler than seeking out a world-famous scientist and his adoptive granddaughter, who may or may not be in Dubai, to chat about the upcoming end of the world.

  After taking out his phone and pulling up his text chain with Yemos, he paused. He hadn’t spoken with the guy in months. If he tried to set something up right now, Yemos may well propose to meet up weeks from now.

  That was way too long for Proto, whose remaining time before his accident was somewhere between “little” and “less.” And if he pushed too hard to meet up within a day or two, Yemos might get weirded out.

  Better to make it seem inadvertent. Maybe he could go on a run past Yemos’ house on Cherry Blossom Lane. It was a nice weekend afternoon. Hopefully he’d see his friend outside and could approach him that way.

  Proto smirked. He realized he was still thinking like a visitor of dreams. He was trying to avoid doing anything too jarring or disconcerting.

  And why? He could just tell Yemos what was going on. “The end of the world is nigh! Could you spare a moment to discuss?”

  Yet something told him that’d be a bad idea—even if Yemos believed him, rather than concluding he’d gone loony.

  Proto recalled something Flua-Sahng had said: “Fate tends to give us several roads to choose from. There are roads that don’t lead to your accident. I’ve only seen void along those roads—and a void that comes quite soon, not a millennium from now.”

  He had a feeling that divulging the arcane secrets of Fate and future potentialities to unwitting people would tend to send events veering off down a bad road. He’d have to discuss that with Flua-Sahng before trying it.

  So, off he ran toward Cherry Blossom Lane. No need to bother changing. He was already in his tracksuit!

  Soon, he was jogging by his friend’s house. But alas, Yemos wasn’t outside when he passed by the first time. Or the fourth or fifth.

  At that point, one of the neighbors was eying him like she was about to make a Concerned Citizen phone call. So, reluctantly, he ran along and completed his run elsewhere.

  As Lady Luck would have it, though, during his warm-down walk along Cherry Blossom Lane, he found his old friend getting the mail.

  “Well, what have we here?” called Proto.

  Yemos blinked and squinted through the sun’s glare.

  Then, he grinned in recognition and skimmed through the mail he was holding. “A ski pass. A bag of coffee beans. A bill for my neighbor. And an ad for”—he scanned it—“a cosplay convention next weekend.”

  As usual, Proto’s dark-haired and dark-eyed friend looked healthy, fit, and untouched by age. This wasn’t the furrowed, grey-templed man approaching middle age whom he recalled from his dream visit.

  “What are you going as?” Proto strolled up beside him. “At the convention.”

  Yemos raised an eyebrow and paused. “Navy commander. I like the uniforms. That, or the Norse giant Ymir.”

  “That’s very specific, for being made up on the spot,” admired Proto.

  “Made up on the spot? Or planned for the last two years?” replied Yemos.

  “Is that what you’ve been up to lately? Cosplay and coffee?” Proto waved toward the mail.

  “Sadly, no conventions. But yes, far too much coffee.” Yemos glanced at the bag in his hand. “You want some? I need a break anyway.”

  “Sure.” Proto eyed his arms, dripping sweat from his run, and followed his friend toward the house. “I’ll try not to touch anything.”

  “Not touch anything? Proto, I’m a twenty-seven-year-old guy,” said Yemos. “I haven’t swept, scrubbed, or sprayed anything in two months. I have old mail, video games, and plastic freezer-meal trays stacked next to each other on the same shelf. I have so many random piles of cords it looks like Shelob’s web.”

  “And a coffee machine?” asked Proto.

  “And a coffee machine,” confirmed his friend.

  “Perfect.”

  The inside was not as dirty as Yemos had made out. In fact, it was disconcertingly similar to the stately little house that Proto had visited in Yemos’ dream. He felt déjà vu as he sat at a table beside a sideboard, and Yemos ambled off to brew the coffee.

  Of course, unlike the dream, there was no enclosed garden. And the furniture was less ornate, less Old World, and more Ikea. Which was good, because Proto was sweating on it.

  “Mind if I use your bathroom?” he asked. He could at least wash off his face and arms.

  “Go for it. It’s around the corner,” directed Yemos.

  Proto went for it. Meanwhile, he admired the decor. It was not exactly Architectural Digest, but there was a discernible theme of black-and-orange rockiness. It went well beyond the posters-and-a-dirty-couch look that’d been near-universal among their friend group just a few years ago.

  “You want a bourbon or something?” called Yemos as Proto flushed and opened the bathroom door.

  “In the morning? Right after running?” replied Proto. “Yes, please.”

  “Help yourself. Pick for me too.” Yemos started rising and approaching.

  Proto opened the closet in the hallway where, in Yemos’ dream, he’d found bourbon and glasses. The inside looked exactly as it had in the dream. Minus Mayger.

  Proto’s first reaction was amusement that, in the house of Yemos’ dreams, the one thing that was exactly the same as reality and didn’t need to be upgraded was the bourbon closet.

  Proto’s second reaction—upon realizing he’d never visited this house in real life, and there was no way he could’ve known where the bourbon was—was alarm.

  “I . . . see I won’t need to direct you to the whiskey?” observed Yemos, brow raised.

  Proto glanced down to check for rising mists before remembering this was no dream.

  Still, he felt there must be some bad consequence for divulging knowledge he shouldn’t have. Maybe this was where the time-space continuum would break and Proto would start misting away! Maybe he’d just screwed up future permanently!

  Well, whatever. He decided to play it cool, the way he had after messing up in a dream visit.

  “Great minds.” Proto tapped his temple. “Where would I keep my whiskey? Pantry closet, of course.”

  “Right? Right?! That’s what I tell Ausrine.” Yemos waved grandly at the bottle closet. “Who would trade this for convenient food storage?”

  Proto remembered the name Ausrine from Yemos’ dream, of course. She’d been the one Yemos had been trying to save. But Proto wasn’t sure if he’d ever heard her name here in real life. He’d have to tread carefully here.

  “Ausrine is . . . your girlfriend? Right?” said Proto.

  Yemos’ lips quirked up, and he looked away. “I don’t recall ever putting it quite that way. Publicly.”

  Proto almost winced and checked for mist again. “Uh, maybe Mannus told me? I see him sometimes.”

  “Ah.” Yemos frowned. “Mannus said that? That seems—well, anyway. Yeah, it’s probably official enough at this point. Girlfriend, yes.”

  “Time to update the relationship status?” said Proto.

  Yemos raised his smartphone high. “The moment of truth is come! . . . After I drink that bourbon. Maybe.”

  Lips curving up with mischief, Proto selected the same bottle as in the dream and brought it out, together with a couple glasses.

  “That’s what you’re going to give me?” exclaimed Yemos. “Forget it, I’m not updating anything today. Bad omen!”

  “Sorry, guess I’m just not a bourbon guy!” mused Proto. That was untrue. He’d quite liked the 30+-year-old bourbons he’d drunk at Somnus’ Palace. But twenty-seven-year-old Yemos probably wasn’t in a position to be dropping thousands on bourbon older than he was.

  “I mean, you could’ve at least grabbed the Barrel Strength instead of the Small Batch Select,” groused Yemos. “What do you drink? Hard seltzer?”

  “Mostly armagnac and absinthe,” responded Proto.

  Yemos frowned. “What, are you a 1900s Frenchman?”

  Proto waved haughtily. “Good taste is timeless and universal.”

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  Yemos pointed at him. “Well, guess what, Mister Timeless-and-Universal, this is a bourbon and freedom fries sort of house.”

  Proto eyed a few different stacks of freezer-meal trays. One was next to a giant poofy La-Z-Boy, and was functioning as a makeshift table for a game controller and a pop can. “Indeed.” It did sort of smell like French fries, come to think of it.

  They both chuckled and sipped their bourbon for a while.

  “So,” began Proto, feeling the drink’s warmth seeping through him. “Who’s this Ausrine? What’s she like?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, I do, but.” Yemos looked away. “Bright, I guess. But also dark. Kind of comes off as mysterious. But also approachable.” As he spoke, his voice drifted further away, together with his musings. “Always changing from day to day. Her personality, her opinions, her moods. But always coming back to the same things later. Changeful, changeless. Like the moon or something.”

  Proto smiled. Sounds like a couple that Somnus would want to keep together. “If you get this philosophical on bourbon, you should try absinthe.”

  “I mean, I don’t know!” Yemos threw up a hand. “Pale hair. Grey eyes. 110 pounds. Why am I answering this question?”

  Proto laughed.

  “Funny?” retorted Yemos. “Well, it’s your turn, Mister I’m-Still-Pissed-About-Muse-Concert-Karen.”

  “She goes by Black now,” noted Proto. “Her last name, Karen Black.”

  Yemos peered at him. “How ‘now’ are we talking?”

  Proto’s lips curved up. “Yesterday.”

  “Oh, this I gotta hear!” exclaimed Yemos. “Where did you two leave off? After high school graduation, end of that Summer? Going to concerts, going to football games, listening to her play guitar . . . ?”

  Yes, he and Karen Black had done all those things. It sure sounded idyllic, didn’t it? The classic post-high-school romance. Proto smirked, recalling those days:

  “Moo, I went through all of high school without a single football game. I’m proud. You want me to ruin my perfect record?” asked Karen.

  “The record will be unaffected! We’re not in high school anymore,” he reasoned.

  “Haven’t we done enough new things for the first time this month?” Her lips quirked up. “How about we do more of those?”

  “Strongly agreed. But I don’t think it’s mutually exclusive!” he said.

  “Sure, right in the bleachers, sounds good,” she replied. “Are they even called ‘bleachers’ for football?”

  “Look, you’re approaching this wrong,” he argued. “Think of something you want me to do. Make a trade! Take advantage of this!”

  She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “That Radiohead concert.”

  “ . . . oh, come on.”

  She tittered.

  “That’s a whole day trip!” he continued. “And you just mildly despise football on principle. I viscerally hate Radiohead!”

  “‘You’re approaching this wrong’!” she repeated in a yokel voice. “‘Make a trade’! Right, Moo?”

  “Okay. Okay, we can do that. Radiohead it is,” Proto responded. “If!—you go to Mannus’ football game and give me a full live performance of that song you’re writing.”

  “ . . . oh, come on,” she protested.

  Proto laughed. “I think we have a deal!”

  “I don’t even have lyrics! Just some cliché about a rose without thorns. Not even a chorus!” she objected.

  “No worries! I’ll give you till the day after the game,” he assured her. “And if you have to la-la-la your way through it, I promise I won’t laugh at you. I’ll just laugh with you.”

  She scowled and stared a while. “ . . . you’re not allowed to wear earplugs. For Radiohead. Feel free to wear them for me,” she grumbled. “Also, F you.”

  “Aren’t we just right for each other?” he mused.

  “Like two flames in a dumpster fire.”

  Hm. It actually did sound pretty idyllic, didn’t it?

  Of course, the day after that football game, he’d found out she’d been telling people she’d only dated him to get a free ticket to a Muse concert. He’d broken up with her that afternoon. And he hadn’t spoken with her for the next eight years, much less listened to her Rose Without Thorns song.

  “Feels so long ago now,” noted Yemos. “Remember when you were so mad about the whole thing, you kicked the wall and hurt your leg? Had to get a cane and everything?”

  “What? What are you talking about?” grumbled Proto. He actually had no idea. Maybe it was a joke.

  But Yemos just chuckled quietly, then frowned. “Wait. What ever happened with that Starbucks barista you mentioned a while back? You ever end up getting to know her?”

  “ . . . yep,” confirmed Proto.

  “Oh? When?”

  Proto sighed. “Yesterday.”

  Yemos guffawed. “What happened yesterday?”

  “It’s more like what happened the night before that,” mused Proto.

  “Wait, what? Are we talking about a #3 now?” asked Yemos.

  “I guess you could say that,” said Proto. “And a #4 and a #5 and . . . eh. It’s complicated.”

  Yemos chortled. “What the F?”

  “I know. I know,” grimaced Proto.

  “Well, when the lucky girl pops up on your Facebook, I’ll be sure to give a thumbs-up,” said Yemos.

  “I think I’m stuck in ‘It’s complicated’ for a while,” sighed Proto.

  “Yeah, I got that sense five years ago, when you were walking with that random Polish girl,” Yemos noted.

  Proto, once again, had no idea what he was talking about. “What?”

  “You don’t even remember, do you?” Yemos marveled. “Forget it. So what’s going on now? Break it down for me.”

  “I can’t even break it down for myself. I’d have to remember it all first,” replied Proto.

  “Forgetting this too? How much have you been enjoying that absinthe?” grinned Yemos. “Anyway, sounds like one of us is living the dream.”

  “That’s certainly where the problems started!” affirmed Proto, recalling Somnus’ Palace.

  Yemos tilted his head at the emphatic response, then shrugged. “Being the most indecisive guy I know probably didn’t help either.”

  Indecisive? I guess. Proto just liked to keep his past close enough that he could get back to it. “Well, look, you can’t regret a choice you haven’t made yet.”

  “You’re living life, not setting up a save-and-reload point!” waved Yemos.

  Proto chuckled and held up a finger. “Hey now, look here—”

  “As long as I’m being philosophical,” Yemos broke in, raising his already-half-empty bourbon. “If there’s one thing I’ve learnt in life, it’s that sometimes, the hardest choice is the easiest. Because you know what the best choice is. You just wish you didn’t have to choose.”

  Proto recalled Yemos’ dream that he’d visited. This was a man who followed his own advice, apparently. “Very wise and all that. But I’m not sure it helps me here.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Yemos. “I mean, I get what you’re saying. But are you sure you don’t already know the best choice?”

  Slightly taken aback, Proto found himself recalling his months at Somnus’ Palace with Astrid, Lilac, Dahlia and the rest. He had made a choice there. . . . Or had he? He couldn’t remember that part. And, technically, that was just a possible future that hadn’t happened yet. And now there were Red and Black. Could he make a different choice?

  This was all very complicated. “Maybe.” Proto wasn’t sure what else to say.

  “Always ‘maybe’ with you!” waved Yemos, bourbon in hand. “Take my advice, Mister It’s-Complicated. It’s simpler than you’re making it.”

  “It’s easy for the ‘It’s not complicated’ crowd to give simple advice!” said Proto.

  “Oh, if you think ‘In a relationship’ means ‘It’s not complicated,’ you’ve got some big surprises coming,” yawned Yemos. “The fun’s just getting started at ‘happily ever after.’”

  “Fun fun? Or . . . ?” said Proto.

  Yemos shrugged. “Sometimes fun fun. Sometimes fun like, I’m gonna go grey and get wrinkles.”

  Proto suppressed a wince, recalling that that’s how Yemos had looked in his dream.

  Time to change the subject. Proto felt he’d learnt enough random background information. It was time to start getting to the point.

  “Speaking of fun,” said Proto, “I was reading this article the other day. It was about some massive hollow tree. Not too far from here, just a few hours. And they found a Viking axe inside. Is that not the coolest thing ever?”

  Yemos raised an eyebrow. “‘Speaking of fun’?”

  Proto grinned and rolled his eyes. “I mean—”

  “Oh no, my mind works the same way!” reassured Yemos. “Great minds.” He raised his glass to Proto, and they clinked and drank. “In fact, I read the same article. And, believe it or not, I’d been meaning to ask you about it.”

  “Ask me what?” replied Proto. “My opinion on the axe’s craftsmanship? My thoughts on Vikings’ presence in North America and what became of it?”

  “Yes please and yes please,” answered Yemos. “But first, whether you’d like to visit this tree. I’m planning my thirtieth birthday trip. Long trip. Eight, ten days. That whole area is cool. Mannus and Ausrine are in. But it’d be nice to have a fourth. And you’re much more interested in this stuff than anyone else I know.”

  “Except you,” noted Proto.

  “Great minds,” repeated Yemos.

  Proto pondered this development. He’d thought through many ways that Yemos might respond to his question about the hollow tree. But Yemos inviting him to join the trip was not one of them.

  A sudden realization struck Proto. “Wait. You said your thirtieth birthday? You’re planning a trip more than two years away?”

  “Yeah. At my job, I find the only way I can make sure big vacations happen is to plan them for two years or so,” observed Yemos. “And . . . I’m hoping to have more money for it by that point too.”

  “I’m with you there,” said Proto.

  “So . . . if I book lodging now, you’re in?” Yemos double-gunned him.

  Proto laughed. For once, someone else was double-gunning him and making a dubious proposition. “Really? You’re reserving the rooms two years in advance?”

  Yemos threw up his hands. “There’s a cool place nearby and it’s booked out for the next year! I want to make sure we get in. Comes out to $150 per person per night, if we split it.

  “Fine. Fine,” chuckled Proto. His job might be boring and unfulfilling, but at least he could go on $150-a-night trips.

  “Good. Only other guy I know who might be interested is Quart,” said Yemos.

  “Quart?” frowned Proto. “The Quart we used to play Euchre with?”

  “One and the same,” nodded Yemos.

  “Man, I miss those Euchre nights.” Proto looked off in recollection. “What ever happened to those?”

  “Well, Mannus got busy with football and football friends. Quart got busy with some girl from Poland. And we got jobs,” answered Yemos.

  “Ah, adulthood,” mused Proto.

  “Ah, Euchre. I haven’t played in years,” said Yemos.

  “Really? I’ve played a shit ton lately,” said Proto.

  “What? And I wasn’t invited?” his friend asked lightly.

  “It . . . wasn’t around here. I was visiting somewhere faraway,” he carefully replied.

  “Ah,” replied Yemos. “Too bad.”

  Come to think of it, Yemos usually had been Proto’s Euchre partner back in the day. The dark-haired man had played like Jet. A disciplined card-counter who never made an irrational move.

  Proto suddenly felt empty inside. He missed times past. And he wasn’t even sure if what he was missing was his time at Somnus’ Palace or his times past right here.

  Or maybe that emptiness was just hunger. He had just woken up and gone running on an empty stomach. “Well, I should go get some food.”

  “It’s about that time, isn’t it?” agreed Yemos, gesturing toward the fridge. “Feel free to eat here. No caviar or anything, but I do have mozzarella sticks.”

  Caviar and mozzarella sticks? Proto half-expected to see a Somnus-esque gleam in his friend’s eye. But Yemos looked nonchalant.

  Proto shook the heebie-jeebies off. “Mozzarella sticks and freedom fries?”

  Yemos slapped the table. “Now you’re speaking my language.”

  Proto raised his bourbon glass. “To good health!”

  “Our arteries will need it!” affirmed Yemos.

  “To good arteries, better livers, and the best choices!” declared Proto.

  “Hear hear!”

  They clinked their glasses, drank bourbon, ate fried food, and made no important choices.

  They caught up for a few more hours, the latter half of which was spent video gaming, before Proto headed out. He supposed he hadn’t learnt anything too earthshattering—just the slight surprise of being invited on their trip to that hollow tree.

  Yet Proto felt the visit had been worthwhile. It’d been years since he’d hung out regularly with Yemos, and their friendship’s ties had been stretched thin. Now, things felt loose and relaxed again. It’d be less weird to randomly call up Yemos in the future. Which was good, since he had a feeling he’d need to.

  It wasn’t till Proto got home that evening that he realized he’d missed something important: That trip to the hollow tree, more than two years from now. . . . I won’t be here at that point!

  By then, if all went according to plan, he’d be at Somnus’ Palace. When he’d visited the dream of Emil—that red-jacketed guy who’d played wild rummy—Emil had recalled turning down an invitation by Yemos to join that trip to the hollow tree. Emil had noted that the trip was occurring that very night.

  Probably what had happened was that Yemos had bought lodging for four. But after Proto’s car accident, Yemos had offered Proto’s ticket to Emil.

  This realization led to another: The night of Emil’s dream had been the night of the fiery pandaemonium unleashed by the Elements. Emil’s dream had gone red and fiery, and he had died. What about Yemos? Presumably, he would’ve been at the hollow tree.

  Realizations continued rushing through Proto, like a new river formed after a dam broke. He recalled Dahlia’s shadowcasting about Yemos:

  “The World Rood grows on the horizon. It beckons them. When the flames fall, it will beckon them, and they will come.”

  “The flames will fall, and he will not fall. His name is Yemos!”

  Proto felt his lips curve upward. I get it. The World Rood, the hollow tree, the falling flames. It all fits now.

  Yemos would survive the fiery destruction inside that tree.

  At some point in every puzzle, you lay the piece that shows you what you’re missing—the piece that turns mere puzzle pieces into a picture.

  Proto had just laid that piece, and now his mind was reeling with the picture.

  He felt sure that this knowledge was relevant to his new mission from Flua-Sahng—that this was somehow relevant to changing time’s course and saving the future. But how?

  No answer came to Proto as he lay on his worn-in couch, his mind still hazy and warm with drink.

  Instead, his mind kept falling away toward more human things: That bourbon’s flavor earlier. The song now playing on his T.V.—once again, Longing for the Past, dreamy and wistful. That look on Red’s face as she’d shared her coffee, and then sipped where he’d sipped. Dreamier still, and fervent too, and . . .

  He shook away the woo-woos. But he resolved to get a coffee at Starbucks tomorrow morning. He felt some giddy excitement at the prospect.

  Oh? What ever happened to your choice at Somnus’ Palace? What happened to true love? chided a woman’s voice in his head.

  The voice was familiar, but it wasn’t Astrid, Lilac or Dahlia. After a moment, he realized it was his fifth-grade teacher, Miss Beatrice.

  In response came another voice that sounded like Somnus, but also somewhat like a middle-aged and lawyerly Proto: Well, technically, Proto didn’t choose any true love at Somnus’ Palace. Remember, that was just a future possibility. It hasn’t happened and may never happen. Remember, it was all just a vision that Flua-Sahng gave him. He didn’t choose to have that vision. He doesn’t even remember how it ended. And those three dream ladies—Astrid, Lilac and Dahlia—aren’t even aware of his existence. If he walked up to one of them right now and declared her his “true love,” she’d likely insult his tracksuit and flick his ear. If not worse! In fact, there’s likely nothing in the world they’d want less than to be propositioned by Proto—

  Proto winced and silenced the latter voice. I get the point!

  The latter voice was probably right. His goal now was to save the world. And, in doing so, he should be seeking out the best future possible—not just a repeat of the dream-vision that Flua-Sahng had devised for him.

  Presumably, he’d have to pick his true love at some point. But whom that would be hadn’t been determined yet. This all made perfect sense. Exploring his romantic possibilities was perfectly legitimate, and he had nothing to feel guilty about.

  . . . Still, it kind of felt like he was getting out on a technicality.

  Or maybe an exploit. He recalled an old MMO where, through some clever and complicated maneuvers, you could teleport back to the newbie area after leaving it and leveling up beyond its limits. It always had given him a thrill of guilty pleasure. He’d been pissed when they’d patched that exploit.

  Going back where he’d started and doing better the second time—it appealed to him.

  Oh, Proto! sighed Miss Beatrice. This is not a game! Yemos was quite right. You’re living life, not setting up a save-and-reload point!

  But in response came Flua-Sahng’s queenly tones: Do think of this like a game, and be childlike enough to enjoy games. It’s my secret for never feeling old. I’ve been doing it since time started, and look at me!

  Smiling and shaking off his drowsy delirium, Proto unpaused Illusion of Gaia and resumed gaming.