Abruptly, he lurched awake, eyes opening, then squinted against the bright bleariness.

  It was morning. He was lying on his couch, his game controller on the floor exactly where he’d left it, with Dream of the Shore Bordering Another World still playing on loop.

  Fortunately, he was back in his tracksuit, not a starry nightgown. Checking his shirt pockets, he half-expected to find a red rock there again, but no such luck. He still had no idea how that whole red-rock-in-his-pocket thing had happened.

  Well, he’d worry about it later. His priority right now was steering the world away from the new doom he’d inadvertently set in motion. All this effort, and he’d only made things worse.

  “Orkish hordes”? What the Hell? Was that what Proto had in store if he spent a few hundred years at Somnus’ Palace, then woke up? Life in some sort of Tolkien-esque Warcraft world?

  It’d been a while since Proto had thought about the choice he’d have to make on his Saturn Return at Somnus’ Palace. It almost didn’t feel real now, so much had happened in the past few days.

  And yet that’s still what awaited him, wasn’t it? “Your choice at the end is yours to make, based on true love,” Flua-Sahng had told him.

  But what about everything that’d happened lately here in the breathing world? Would he just be leaving all this behind? Was it all just meaningless and moot? Or would it lead to something?

  “Just remember,” Flua-Sahng once had urged him. “When you think you’ve exhausted the Possibilities, there’s always one more.” He struggled to discern her meaning.

  Instead, his phone rang, derailing his train of thought. He sighed and checked the caller ID. Local area code, unfamiliar number. “Hello?”

  “Hey there. This is Glen at the distillery. Think we’ve got your credit card here,” said the caller. “Someone found it on a chair. Luckily, I found your phone number in the registration info for last night’s tasting.”

  Proto frowned. He distinctly recalled putting away his credit card. Whatever, must’ve been dreaming.

  He hated when this happened. There goes an hour of my day! He was tempted to reply, “Could you just cut it in half and I’ll order a new one?” It wouldn’t be the first time.

  Instead, he said, “Oh, thanks. Can I grab it around 1:30 today?”

  “You got it. Just give me a ring if I’m not around,” said Glen.

  Proto grabbed some business-casual clothes, stared at them, then dropped them. Screw it. The world’s ending. He and his tracksuit strolled out the door, went to work, and clicked on things for a few hours.

  Then, leaving for his lunch break, he grabbed a smash burger and devoured it while walking to the distillery.

  He realized this was his second of the meaty, grease-dripping monstrosities in two days. He recalled a remark that Jag had made: “I can’t gain weight from eating. Special talent. Jet can confirm.”

  Proto was like that too. He didn’t have a bodybuilder’s bulk or a world-class runner’s bony figure. But at age twenty-seven, he still had the same physical frame he’d had as a high school athlete—all lithe musculature. Which was odd, since his only exercise was casual running and skiing.

  Some friends with beer bellies complained about slowing metabolisms and work commitments. And they complained about Proto, who seemed impervious to the ravages of time and calorie. Indeed, he still woke up half-starving and with inexplicably sore muscles sometimes, like he were fourteen and having growth pains.

  About twenty minutes later, he arrived at the quaint industrial building. Entering, he scanned for employees and saw none. But an early-twenties couple was seated at a table with a cheese and charcuterie plate, so someone must be working.

  Approaching the bar, Proto started to take out his phone to call back Glen.

  Then, he saw a little sign on the bar: “Give me a ring if I’m not around.” Next to it were a cowbell and a stick.

  Proto eyed this grimly for a moment. Then, he lifted the stick and struck the cowbell. A huge clack shattered the quietude. And the legendary Bruce Dickinson would’ve approved.

  At the piercing sound, the girl at the table winced and turned to him slowly, curling her lip and raising her brow like she were auditioning for Mean Girls.

  Proto sighed.

  “Be there in a sec!” came a yell from the back room.

  And so he waited.

  “Anyway,” said the girl, turning back to the guy seated across from her, “yeah, I don’t know. Should I stay or should I go?

  “Well, Hon, it’s awfully far,” he replied. “And the UAE has an eight-hour time difference.”

  “Sure. But you can’t go far in your career without going to great lengths, right?” she cheerily countered. “And you stay up late anyway!”

  “Uh huh.” The guy’s lips pressed. “I guess I’ll just miss seeing your face, Shirley.”

  “Aw. But now there’s Zoom. I can see your face and hear your voice,” Shirley reasoned. “So that’s everything we need, right?”

  “Yeah. Everything,” he mumbled.

  “What’s up, my man?” called a figure emerging from the back room. It was the bushy-bearded presenter from yesterday’s whisky tasting—Glen, evidently. “Here for the credit card, right? Proto, wasn’t it?”

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  “That’s me,” he affirmed.

  “Oh. You.” Glen squinted at him. “You’re the guy those girls were making fun of!”

  “That’s probably going on my tombstone at this point,” observed Proto.

  “It could be worse,” replied Glen. “You could be a low-paid whisky enthusiast who spends his days negotiating pricing with ruthless local bar owners, so that, on rare occasions, he can teach uninterested Philistines about malt spirits.”

  “I feel for you,” winced Proto sympathetically. “Have a dram on me . . . after I get back my card.”

  “Can’t.” He handed over Proto’s card. “I’m mid-negotiations with a ruthless customer. Real cold bitch!” He yelled this toward the back room, so whoever was back there couldn’t help but hear.

  “You beg me to come here,” called a woman from the back room, “you schedule a time, you promise me a competitive offer. And here I am, sitting alone in your grubby back room, while you badmouth me to—Moo?”

  Black emerged from the back room at that point. Her hazel eyes blinked twice at him, and she ran a hand through her red hair.

  Then, she smirked, resting a hand on her hip. “What are you doing at this shithole?”

  She was, as usual, wearing cutoff jean short-shorts and a tight tanktop with ripped off sleeves. The front read, “Still going down like a lead zeppelin,” and it showed a wide-open mouth and a zeppelin.

  “Come on, there are customers here!” Glen protested to Black, waving in the couple’s direction.

  “I’m . . . having a dram with two good friends?” suggested Proto in response to Black. He extended his arms toward her and Glen.

  “You’re always so nice, Moo.” Black patted his hand. “You’re like the softie I keep buried inside.”

  “Very deeply, maybe,” muttered Glen.

  Black arched her brow. “Yeah, I can tell you’re really desperate for my business. Maybe next year.”

  “Fine! Fine,” Glen gave in. “3k for the lot.”

  “3k, plus 10% discount on future orders,” corrected Black.

  “She’s gonna bankrupt me,” Glen observed to Proto.

  “No, I’ll just take you to the edge and stop there,” replied Black. “Ask Proto, he can tell you from firsthand experience.”

  Proto coughed and widened his eyes. “As I recall, you definitely did not stop—”

  “Whoa now, let’s keep this PG-13, Moo! There are customers here,” Black broke in. “Anyway, do we have a deal?”

  “Yes! F you,” confirmed Glen.

  “Exactly what I like to hear. I’ll send Jakeson to grab it tomorrow,” said Black.

  “Sure! I’ll just be here, waiting, whenever is convenient,” grumbled Glen. “Will he need a ride arranged? Some refreshments waiting?”

  “Another remark like that and he will!” retorted Black.

  “So.” Glen turned to Proto. “You know this harridan? This harpy? This—"

  “You’re good so far,” interrupted Black, “but if you say ‘hag,’ the deal’s off.”

  “This . . . hellcat?” finished Glen.

  “Mm. We’re good.” Black fistbumped Glen. “Yes, Moo and I go way back. His taste in music is good, his oversensitivity is bad, and his clothes are ugly. But I forgive it all because he’s funny.”

  Glen shook his head at Proto in wonder. “It’s like I said earlier. They all do this to you, don’t they?”

  Proto threw up his hands. “I didn’t ask for this!”

  Black inclined an eyebrow. “That’s the least convincing ‘I didn’t ask for this’ I’ve heard since my roommate wore a green bikini to a frat party on St. Patrick’s Day.”

  Proto gave in. “I’m sorry my tracksuit has that effect on you!” He waved at the unjustness of the world. “But can I be blamed? Am I at fault for who I am? Can I help how others react to me? Should I?”

  Black cackled. “There’s my Moo. Here, let’s go for a walk. See you, Glen.”

  “Till later, my man,” Glen called to Proto, making a hand gesture. “Y-side!”

  “Y-side!” Proto confirmed.

  “You F-ing nerds,” said Black.

  “My career comes before my love life!” exclaimed Shirley to her boyfriend.

  And Proto and Black walked out. As it turned out, they both were headed the same way.

  They did that awkward do-we-keep-pace-with-another-or-drift-apart thing for several seconds.

  “So, yeah, that’s the key,” Black abruptly declared, just as he’d opened his mouth to say goodbye. “Take ‘em to the edge, then stop there. And they’ll thank you for it.”

  “I can’t tell if that’s advice on negotiations or romance,” observed Proto.

  “Your mistake is thinking there’s a difference!” After a moment, Black glanced at him. “Just kidding, Moo. I’m like Led Zeppelin. Hard shell to hide that I’m too soft for this world.”

  “Until the softness shows, during those Stairway to Heaven and All My Love moments in life,” replied Proto.

  “You get me, Moo,” affirmed Black. “But yeah, seriously. Life lesson: Never take more than 99% of the profit. Always leave the other guy a little bit. 1%? He’s happy. A loss? He’ll try to screw you over forever.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind when I’m negotiating with . . . ?” Proto inclined an eyebrow at Black.

  “With some ‘cold bitch’ or another.” She smirked at him, her hazel eyes glimmering.

  “Some 80s-looking girl in a ripped tanktop and cutoff jean shorts?” He eyed her, lips curving up.

  “Yeah, what can I say, I’m a Gen X born in the Millennial era. Call me ‘late-stage Gen X,’” replied Black.

  “Meaning, you’re not Gen X, but you happily live out your life like you were, even as the world falls apart around you?” suggested Proto.

  “Wow. This is going to work, isn’t it!” marveled Black.

  Then, she ran a hand through her red hair. “That was a joke, by the way.”

  “Sure, what else would it be, Muse Concert Girl?” he replied.

  She looked up at him and frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean, Moo?”

  “Oh, I just lose track of what’s ironic and what’s irony about being ironic,” he said. “Gets hard to tell what you really mean.”

  “Well, that’s the point, right? Like I said, late-stage Gen X!” she lightly tossed back—then glanced down at herself. She was unusually quiet for the next few minutes of their walk.

  Then, she stopped and faced him. “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 the mountain past the old power station. . . . And I think I owe you a ticket. What do you think, Moo?”

  Proto tilted his head at her. He smiled.

  She blushed. “How’s that for unironic!”

  “Just like old times.” He extended his hand for a fistbump.

  Black eyed his fist. “What the F, Moo, is that a yes? This is a date, not a game night with your bros!”

  Proto laughed and squeezed her hand. “How’s that?”

  “Better. But I still want an answer!” she replied.

  He lifted her hand and kissed the back of it. “Better?”

  “Good enough,” she mumbled, running a hand through her hair. “You frigging Casanova.”

  Proto’s lips quirked up as they resumed walking. “We should make each other mixtapes, Softie.” He supposed he was already halfway through making her a mixtape, if he could find the one he’d started eight years ago.

  “Oh, for F’s sake!” she grumbled. “Yes, we should.”

  They walked awhile in silence.

  “Maybe Muse Concert Girl will even wear her old Muse T-shirt,” she finally added, with glibness that sounded a bit forced. “Just in case this coffee needed another packet of sugar.”

  “I’ve always thought you’d look good in a Stevie Nicks dress,” noted Proto. “You know, all witchy and gossamer.”

  “Moo, I love her outfits like life itself. But I’m not dressing up as witchy Stevie Nicks for an outdoor indie concert,” Black replied. “Or anywhere else for that matter. Until the sky falls and I write my first hit single.”

  “How’s that guitar practice going?” he asked. “And that song you were writing? You know, you were strumming and humming it for me eight years ago?”

  “F you,” she frowned, as he chortled quietly. “They’re going exactly where such things go, when you work full time in your late twenties!”

  “Aw,” he lamented.

  “Which is to say, I’ve given up my hopes of international stardom,” she went on. “But I am better at guitar and songwriting. Just ask my audiences, they’re unanimous! . . . Which maybe isn’t as impressive as it sounds, with the audience being me, myself and I.”

  “Well, let’s double that audience as soon as possible,” declared Proto.

  “Deal,” said Black after a brief pause, clasping his fingers—then looked down at their hands. “Anyway!” She released and strode onward.

  He barely heard her murmur from ahead a moment later: “What the F, Karen. Fingers today, footsie tomorrow.”

  Proto smiled and said nothing, redoubling his pace to catch up.