Proto didn’t read the news much anymore, but he did still receive phone notifications from the local paper. This morning at work, he inadvertently tapped one and was about to close the website that popped up, when a giant picture of Calamity Calamari caught his eye, followed by the phrase, “Cosplay Convention Excites Locals.” He followed the link.

  The story was about the cosplay convention that Ausrine and Red were going to. It mostly consisted of comments from residents about what they’d be wearing and how this event would “put this town on the map.” But a paragraph near the end noted that, while VIP passes had sold out long ago, a gaming store in town would be handing out a few passes at an upcoming tournament.

  But what kind of tournament?

  He followed a chain of links—musing to himself, This is where my time goes—and ended up at a Facebook event page titled “A Lunch-Hour Rump Romp.”

  Staring at that page, Proto felt he must have taken a wrong turn at some point, either today or in life. But he read on and learned that there would be a card and board-game tournament where they’d be serving rump roast from a nearby butcher shop.

  Most of the games listed were the sort of exceedingly complicated war-themed games that he wished he’d learnt in youth when he’d had time. But one of them was Euchre. This was unsurprising—it was a matter of regional pride. A card tournament without Euchre here would be like a Texas card tournament without Texas Hold ‘Em.

  This whole event would’ve been a mere curiosity, soon forgotten, if not for something Proto recalled Ausrine saying to Red: “I have a favor to ask you. It involves driving me home from a cosplay convention. But I can get you a free ticket in exchange. Normal ticket, not a VIP pass, unfortunately. Those guys get to go in early.”

  “Those guys get to go in early.” He checked the cosplay convention’s website and found that, indeed, VIPs could enter the convention a full two hours before normies.

  Excitement surged through Proto. Here was his solution! Here was how he’d steer the world back onto the right Fate Road!

  He’d go to the tournament, play Euchre, and win a VIP pass. He’d give it to Red, explaining that he had a conflict the day of the convention. She’d be excited to enter early with the VIPs—but she’d realize that this would prevent her from driving Ausrine as promised. Proto would reassure her, “That’s fine. I’ll just get my friend Mannus to drive Ausrine. He already offered a few days ago.” Mannus and Ausrine would have their car ride together.

  And . . . the hows and whys got sort of ambiguous here. But, somehow or other, that car ride would prevent an ork horde from sweeping across the world in a few hundred years and wiping out life itself.

  There was just one problem with this grand scheme: The tournament was today at noon. To get there on time, he’d have to leave work within fifteen minutes.

  Proto made a decision, and it didn’t take fifteen minutes.

  Instead, sixty seconds later, he got up, walked out of the office, and started down the street. He was headed roughly in the direction of the gaming store, but that’s not where he was going first.

  Minutes later, the familiar dark green awning of Starbucks came into view. If ever he’d needed caffeine, it was now!

  He hadn’t counted on finding Red inside. But when he entered and saw her at the espresso machine, with her long, loose-bound black ponytail falling behind her work cap, he knew that this was fated.

  With Red competing, they’d have two chances to win instead of one. Plus, with her there, it’d be more natural to give her his VIP pass if he won.

  “Morning, Blue!” he called. “I’ll be needing a black black eye.”

  An anxious smile had brightened her face upon seeing him, but Red hid it quickly. “Coming right up!” She balled two fists like a boxer, miming a couple punches, then giggled. “What size? KO or RIP? B button punch or C button punch?”

  “I forget what it’s called,” said Proto. “The one that’s so big it falls out of cup holders, and Europeans make fun of us for having it.”

  “Ah, R button punch. Black black eye indeed!” She started working on his drink. “Not enough sleep last night?”

  “Yep. I was working on a theory,” he answered.

  “Oh? What’s the theory, Einstein?” she asked.

  “You’re not the first to call me that,” he noted. “My theory is, I could play hooky at work from 11:00 to 3:00 and call it a lunch break. And no one there would even notice or care, as long as I sent a few e-mails in between. That’s Theory Number One.”

  “Theory Number Two is,” he said, “you could do that too.”

  Red’s eyes lit up at Theory Number Two, but she tilted her head questioningly. “How are you going to send e-mails while you’re playing hooky? Type them up on your phone? Doesn’t that defeat the point?”

  “No. I wrote them as I walked here and scheduled them in Outlook,” he explained.

  “Oh, nice trick,” she praised. “It’s a nice trick, isn’t it, Chub Chub?

  “Unfortunately, Your Redness, we can’t schedule-send coffees,” replied her coworker.

  “Buuuttt . . . hypothetically speaking, if an employee here were to disappear from”—Red checked her watch—“11:17 to 3:00, and she paid her awesome friend to work three extra hours after his shift ended at noon, no one would even notice or care that we were slightly understaffed from 11:17 to noon. And he certainly would never tell anyone. Do you think?”

  “I think it’d depend what her awesome friend was being paid,” replied Chub.

  “Um . . . I can pay in knit scarfs, high-level Pokèmon, future favors, or eternal gratitude,” she offered.

  “Not or. And,” said Chub.

  “Yay!” Red ran over and gave Chub a friendly little hug. “Eternal gratitude, Chub Chub!”

  “Mm-hmm,” he calmly acknowledged, continuing to work.

  “Speaking of Chub”—Red turned to Proto—“you should wish him a happy Saturn Return.”

  This was the last thing Proto expected to hear at this moment. Instantly, he was transported back to another time and place.

  The feelings of that day, his Evaluation Day, rushed through him: eagerness, anxiety, intensity and, finally, boundless happiness. But when he tried to translate those feelings into clear memories, they dissipated just before the happiness part. Only the feeling survived past that point.

  Why? Why can’t I remember the ending . . . ?

  Proto would’ve pondered this further, but he now realized he was staring slackjawed. He tried to put on a smart face. “29.5 years, huh?”

  “You look astounded. But I can’t tell if it’s because I’m already 29.5 or because I’m only 29.5,” observed Chub.

  Proto wasn’t sure what to tell the pudgy, bald barista. So it was good that Red jumped in at this point.

  “You know what a Saturn Return is! That’s awesome!” She turned from Proto to Chub. “Isn’t it, Old Man? You didn’t even know you were having a Saturn Return till I told you last week.”

  “Happy Saturn Return, Old Man,” Proto managed.

  “Alright, let’s nip this in the bud,” the bald barista said. “It’s Chub, or Chubs, or Chubby, or—if you must—Chub Chub. But Old Man is out of the question till at least 35.”

  “Aw,” complained Red.

  “But I appreciate the thought,” Chub continued.

  “Hey.” Red’s eyes had gone wide and bright as full moons. She tapped the Saturn emblem on Proto’s tracksuit. “Look, Chub Chub! Tracksuit Guy dressed for the occasion!”

  Tracksuit Guy? Proto looked down and realized that, indeed, he’d worn his tracksuit to work today.

  “Not Slick anymore?” he asked her.

  “I think that goes without saying.” Red frowned and pinched the polyester collar. “Unless we’re referring to your outfit being shiny and reflective and slick due to its plastics.”

  Proto waved imperiously. “Comfort is everything.”

  Chub studied the tracksuit appraisingly. “I think it’s cool.”

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  “If I could frame four words and hang them on my wall, it’d be those words,” said Proto.

  Meanwhile, two customers had just walked in and approached the register.

  “Hi there, what’ll it be?” asked Chub, turning to them.

  Red and Proto moved away from the customers to a table, so it’d be less obvious that an employee was standing around not assisting them.

  “Sooo, where’re we playing hooky?” asked Red.

  “Oh, somewhere fun. It’s a Rump Romp,” explained Proto.

  Red eyed him flatly for a moment. “Proto, are you going to a swingers club? On your lunch break?”

  “Well, there will be lots of Kings and Queens making sets,” he acknowledged.

  “And you invited me?!” she cried.

  He tried to keep a straight face. “I mean, after that whisky tasting, I felt like it was my turn.”

  “Your turn?! What are you implying about me!” she fumed.

  “There’s a first time for everything, right?” he shrugged. “I just thought you might do well there . . . ”

  Red’s eyes went wide and she took a deep breath, opening her mouth to retort.

  Proto’s suppressed laugh slipped out. “ . . . at Euchre. Or maybe Pokèmon or Magic: The Gathering. At the local gaming store. While eating the rump roast they’ll be serving.”

  Red blinked a few times as she put this together piece by piece. “Well. That does sound better, doesn’t it.”

  “Plus, the winner gets a VIP pass to that cosplay convention you and Ausrine were talking about,” he added.

  “Say no more, I’m in!” she exclaimed. “Let’s go.”

  “Sounds good. But first, I’ll need that black black eye.” He held out his credit card and gestured at the drink she’d left behind the counter.

  “Nope nope nope!” Red swatted at his card till he retracted it. “You drink free here, remember? Unlike that other place.” She thumbed toward the ceiling. ELO’s Evil Woman could be heard faintly from above them. “$14 a drink. Ugh!” She waltzed off behind the counter to make his drink.

  Actually, Proto did drink free at “that other place.” Sort of.

  Black slid his two bills back to him. “There’s your change. You can leave a tip, but I’m not accepting cash or credit. So you’ll have to get creative.” Her hazel eyes glimmered in the neon light.

  But Proto decided not to clarify that point. As a wise woman once said, “Sometimes it’s happier not to know everything, isn’t it?”

  The tension he’d recently witnessed between Red and Black—those two former V-friends—was probably the awkwardest moment he’d had since leaving Somnus’ Palace. He hoped that by never mentioning it and never acknowledging it, the underlying problem would go away. Or at least, it wouldn’t come back before his car accident.

  It reminded him of an old roommate’s views on re-painting a college apartment: “Don’t bother scraping, just paint over it. We won’t be here long.”

  That felt awfully cynical. But maybe that could be forgiven from someone whose “mortal body soon would be a scuttled wreck, broken inwardly to bits, shattered by a 5,000 pound impact at over 50 miles an hour.”

  “One extra black black eye, American-sized, courtesy of Red.” She handed it over blithely, swishing her long, black hair over her shoulder. “But don’t tell my boss! You too, Chub Chub.”

  “I’m not sure who this ‘boss’ is,” replied the bald barista. “Other than, technically speaking, myself.”

  “That makes it easy, doesn’t it?” Red pointed out.

  “Easy or impossible, depending how you look at it,” answered Chub. “But, as a co-conspirator in your lawless schemes, my lips are sealed.”

  “Well said,” praised Red. “You’re in too deep now, Chub Chub. No backing out.”

  “I’ll have my scarf blue and my Mewtwo shiny,” he directed.

  “Deal! Buuttt . . . he may or may not be a clone.” Red started making another drink.

  “Your terms are acceptable,” said Chub. “I mean, he sort of is anyway, right?”

  “That’s the spirit!” she agreed.

  “Treating yourself?” Proto called to Red at the espresso machine.

  “Yup! An American-sized Americano!” she said.

  “You don’t even like Americanos,” observed Chub. “Also, why is it milky?”

  “Yeah, no, it’s not even slightly an Americano. I’d just been waiting to say that,” explained Red. “It’s actually a gingerbread latte.”

  “Gingerbread? Weren’t we all out? For weeks now?” asked Chub.

  Red nodded. “I keep a secret stash of it. And red holiday cups.”

  Chub shook his head. “Lawless!”

  “Ready to go, Blue?” Proto checked his watch, as Red finished making her coffee.

  “Yes! Onward.” Red sipped her giant drink—then paused and studied it a moment. “Actually, no. I’ll be right back.” She hurried off to the bathroom.

  Chub eyed her sidelong as she walked away, lips curved up wryly.

  “Priority #1 is #1!” she giggled quietly to herself, disappearing down the bathroom hallway.

  “Like I said,” mused Chub after a moment, “I hope your heart’s in this. Since it’s not the only one.”

  Proto blinked at the unexpected words, then suppressed a wince. It seemed clear enough what the guy was getting at. And he suddenly felt sorry for the chubby bald barista.

  It must’ve been hard for Chub—having Red ask him to sub in for her, while she gallivanted off to play hooky with another guy.

  “I’m sorry,” Proto offered awkwardly.

  “Hm?” frowned Chub. “Nothing to be sorry about yet, as far as I know. I’ve never seen her happier. Or did you mean, sorry to me? No worries. I mean, I guess this’ll keep me from my wife for a few hours, but my kid doesn’t get home till 3:15 anyway. I’d just be playing Baldur’s Gate or something.”

  Proto blinked and parsed this. Welp, add this to the list of Things Misunderstood by Me.

  “Great game,” he managed.

  “Right? I play a dwarf. You probably guessed that,” Chub replied. “But yeah, no, what I meant was, Red and I used to talk about you, before she met you. We called you Tracksuit Guy. At least, I called you that. She called you ‘Tracksuit Guy with the Nice Face.’ And she used to dream up these crazy scenarios where, one day, you’d dress up all slick and sweep her off her feet. And then, lo and behold—”

  Chub cut off as the bathroom door swung back open. “Please don’t tell her I told you that,” he muttered.

  “What?” called Red, approaching.

  Chub kept a straight face. “I said, ‘Wow, that was fast.’ And I didn’t hear the water run.”

  “Are you trying to embarrass me? Smell the soap!” Red waggled her fingers in his face. “Unlike you guys’ bathroom. Where we only need to refill the soap every six months.”

  She wrinkled her nose and turned to Proto. “Alright, let’s go. Don’t hold my hand, okay? Unless you use soap.”

  “Routinely and regularly,” he assured her, shaking her hand. “Every Saturn Return.”

  “Ugh!” Red lurched away and strode toward the exit. “Probably born with Saturn rising in Virgo. In a bathroom!”

  Proto, in fact, had been born in a bathroom—a bathtub, to be precise. His mother had been going through an “all things natural” kick at the time. “You sort of bumped your head! That’s probably why you sleepwalk,” she’d told him once. But he decided not to divulge all this. He felt he was already the butt of enough jokes without helping like that.

  “How much time do we have?” asked Red, as they started down the street.

  Proto checked his watch and winced. “About twenty-five minutes for a half-hour walk.”

  “Or . . . fifteen minutes if you’re roller skating?” suggested Red.

  He blinked. “Um. Do you have skates handy?”

  “I do! What else would I keep in my car’s trunk?!” She beamed. “Where are yours, Proto?”

  “Um. I think I left them at my parents’ place.”

  She tsked and rolled her eyes. “Well, that’s what you get! We’ll have to take a shortcut then. Let’s go across the Arb.” At his blank face, she continued, “The University Arboretum. You know, the big park over there.” She waved northward.

  That actually might save time. Otherwise, they’d have to go around the park.

  “Are we allowed to?” he asked. “We’re not students or teachers there.”

  “Sure, I used to do it all the time,” she assured him.

  “ . . . when you were a student,” he clarified.

  “Yup.”

  “And now you’re not a student?”

  “Correct.”

  Proto pondered this reasoning of hers. “Alright then. Onward!”

  “Onward!” she agreed.

  They walked a couple blocks north and entered the University Arboretum. It started with a sunny trail across a grassy field, but soon they’d slipped beneath the bower of overhanging elms and ashes. The path wound and sometimes forked, but Red effortlessly kept them going north—or so it seemed for several minutes.

  It was at that point that Red halted at a five-way intersection. “Huh! I don’t remember this being here.”

  Proto’s lips curved downward. “Blue, are we lost?”

  “Nah,” she reassured. “And if we are, I’m sure we’ll find a forest ranger.”

  “The Arb has forest rangers?”

  “Sure! Someone’s got to arrest the students dumb enough to drink beer out of beer cans instead of opaque water bottles,” she replied.

  “And you’re sure he’ll help us rather than arrest us?”

  “Slick, I’m $100,000 in debt so I can cross the Arb. It’s the one thing my degree is good for!” she countered.

  Proto couldn’t argue with that. But he was beginning to wonder if this was, in fact, a “shortcut.” It was looking more like “the scenic route” at this point.

  “I’ve always loved that mossy waterfall!” Red remarked a few minutes later.

  “Oh, good. You remember where we are?” he asked.

  “Sure, I remember I found my way home every single time I saw this waterfall!” she assured him.

  Proto frowned and eyed his fellow traveler. But she already was strolling blithely ahead.

  As they roved the shaded verdure, more and more boughs reached overhead, leaving ever less of the late morning’s shining blue. Or was it afternoon now? No, only 11:43, he saw on his watch. Huh, could’ve sworn it was later. It felt like they were trespassing in some fey realm, removed from the steady flow of mundane time. It felt like the forest paths were alive and shifting, re-routing them away from their bright destination toward their dark, sylvan destiny.

  Proto was on the verge of suggesting that he climb a tree Bilbo-style and figure out their whereabouts from the treetops, when Red abruptly declared, “About five more minutes till we’re out! And from there, five minutes to the store. We’ll be right on time.”

  “Never doubted you, Red!” he declared. “Don’t know what to do? Count on Blue! She’ll pull through.”

  “You sound like lyrics from a 90s kids show,” she observed. “Some show with five heroes who wear five colors and combine their powers.”

  “Nice, I’ve advanced a decade,” muttered Proto. “Whose references are from ‘the days of shoulder pad suits and Thundercats’ now?!”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  It was at this point that a man-shaped silhouette shambled into view ahead of them. It was moaning and shuffling, with one leg dragging useless in its wake. Step, shift. Step, shift.

  Proto and Red paused and exchanged a glance.

  The thing groaned again. Step, shift. Step, shift.

  “Proto . . . what is that?” whispered Red, round-eyed. “And why is it in the Arb?”

  Mind you, it had occurred to Proto that this wasn’t his first time in the University Arboretum. When he’d visited Helen’s dream, on her fairy-fraught GSI retreat with Himari, Dimitri and Sancho, they’d been camping in the Arb. And he was fairly sure that, when Emil had been ambushed by a robber in the woods, these had been the woods.

  Further, it occurred to Proto that those dreams were from the future. In those dreams, he’d had no knowledge of the Arb. But now, that future would never come to be, because now he did know the Arb. Yet he still remembered that never-to-be future. This felt like a paradox. In a certain sort of movie, the fabric of spacetime would be tearing right now, and bizarre things would be happening.

  This all passed through Proto’s head in two seconds, as he tried to decipher what this shambling being might be. Other than the walking dead, of course.

  But then, why not? Why not the undead?

  “Proto . . . !” Red tugged his sleeve insistently. “We’ve got to go!” She pointed down another path, forking off and disappearing down a hill.

  Had Proto torn the veil between the waking world and dreaming?

  Was this thing a dream of living death, come from the space between time to punish man, whose promethean folly had breached its nether realm and set it free?

  Proto looked down the hill that Red was pointing toward. A low mist hung atop the forest floor, swirling and shifting. The further down the trail descended, the more the mist and shadows swarmed.

  “Now!” Red was urging.

  And this dark creature nearing them, shambling and obscure but manlike, wandering here from who knows where. Who might it be? Emil? Helen? A dream-version of Emil or Helen? Was it Emil after he’d died? Or . . .

  “Is it me . . . ?” he wondered.

  “What the F, Proto, come on!” Red grabbed his arm and tugged him onto the downward trail.

  They’d gone three steps when they heard the voice.