Dim blue light woke Proto from his deep sleep. Blearily, he wondered where the glow was coming from. Had he sleepwalked into the misty blue corridors of Somnus’ Palace?

  No, that couldn’t be it. He was lying on something cushioned, not the floor. He also was holding something plastic—a game controller.

  His eyes shot open.

  The dim glow was an old CRT T.V. Paused on the screen was Illusion of Gaia. He’d been meaning to beat it since he was nine, but he’d never seriously tried till age twenty-seven. In fact, playing that game was the last thing he remembered before he’d woken up in Somnus’ Palace and begun his long adventure there—from blundering his way through his first days as a provisional visitor to saving the world and finding true love.

  Proto smiled in recollection—then frowned. Finding true love?

  He clearly recalled what’d happened up through his Evaluation Day—at least, up through when Somnus had welcomed him as a visitor.

  But his memories of what had happened shortly thereafter—when Somnus froze everyone in place, and divulged the nature of the choice that lay before Proto—wisped away into obscurity. And he had no memory at all of what he’d said to Somnus in response. Just a vague sense that he’d said something, and that he’d experienced some important things afterward.

  Even now, he seemed to see shadows of those events. Yet they were dwindling like a morning mist before the glare of day.

  This was, to be sure, odd and concerning. But it was absolutely dwarfed by the realization that followed a moment later.

  It had all been a dream.

  Proto stared, agape, at the game controller he’d been holding when he fell asleep; then, the T.V. that’d been paused and the couch he’d been lying on when he’d fallen asleep; then, his old Ikea cassette rack; then, his No Fires sign from some campground, which he’d hung up after someone left it at his place a long time ago. He struggled to wrap his mind around the enormity of this realization.

  Of course, he’d suspected it from the outset. He recalled saying so to Astrid on his dream’s first day, like it were yesterday: He looked up at her fierce violet eyes, glaring down between the silvery-blue hair falling on either side. “This hurts a lot for a dream,” he observed.

  And then her strange reply: “You really believe that, don’t you? You think that’s why you’re here. You think you’re dreaming.” In her smirk, there was a trace of—sympathy? “Boy, have you got a surprise coming.”

  Well, whatever. It looked like he’d been right and she’d just been blustering. Or, rather, his dreaming subconscious mind had been messing with him. Since Astrid was a dream, and dreams don’t “bluster.”

  It was then that his mindboggled wonder started declining toward sadness. All that he’d seen and lived and done these last few months—that lone diamond amid the coal of his life—was just a dream.

  Astrid, Lilac and Dahlia? Dreams. His friends and their card games and drinks together? Dreams. Somnus, Anima and Flua-Sahng? Dreams. No more real than forms made fleetly by the mists, even now melting into thin air.

  Gone—and yet not all gone. If nothing else, Proto had learnt real things about real life in that dream: That living life like a dream, paradoxically, made it more real. That consequences were at once less fearful and more delightfully surprising when you let them emerge unknown from your misty prospect, like scenes from a dream.

  Thus, Proto’s profound melancholy was balanced by a sanguine certainty that, from now on, life was going to be very different.

  Standing, he stretched and yawned at length. Man, I’m sleepy. Who could blame him? What a dream!

  Noticing the navy and yellow of his sleeves and cuffs, Proto glanced down at his old tracksuit. He smiled wistfully at its blue Saturn emblem above his left breast. He recollected the thousand times his outfit had been remarked upon these last few months—or, rather, during last night’s dream.

  Then, proceeding to his closet, he removed the tracksuit and stuck it on the top shelf, where it’d be out of sight and would take some effort to reach. It was time for him to get his life in order, and, alas, his daily tracksuit look would not facilitate that. He’d treat his tracksuit like a retired jersey—venerable and fondly remembered, but never worn.

  Proto slipped into a blazer and slacks and combed his hair. As he checked the mirror, his lips quirked upward. Jet would approve.

  He hadn’t worn this getup in over a year. He never went anywhere important enough to bother with nice clothes. Time to change that, he mused.

  It was time to go ask out that barista at Starbucks!

  The trip there felt long. He was used to running it. And he felt strangely tempted to do so right now: To force the moment to its crisis! To outrun Time’s winged chariot! And who knew? Maybe she liked the tousled, sweat-glowing, sun-drenched look of a runner.

  He decided against it. But he did quicken his pace to a near-jog. And within minutes, the green awning loomed across the street, beckoning him like a shady leaf canopy in the desert’s glare.

  Boldly strode he toward his shadowy prospect, flinging open the door, and across the threshold. Into the aromatic chamber he went, words ready at his lips. Words he’d never have had the creativity or courage to muster up even yesterday. Words that would draw her to him as surely as the Sun draws the Earth and the Moon draws the Sea. He opened his mouth.

  “Hey Bro,” hailed the pudgy bald barista, waving an empty venti cup in greeting. “The usual? Pistachio or macadamia nut?”

  “ . . . pistachio,” mumbled Proto.

  Sometimes, he felt like the world was one big joke at his expense.

  “You got it.” The barista turned and started pouring a cold brew. “Nice digs, by the way. Job interview? Or . . . ?” He arched an eyebrow.

  “Or,” confirmed Proto.

  The barista was named Chub; or that was his nickname, Proto wasn’t sure. They’d struck up a few conversations when Proto’s work had gotten busy last Winter and he’d come for a coffee each evening for a few weeks.

  Apparently, Chub was working the day shift today. Sigh.

  “Good luck with that, my man,” replied Chub. “Red eye? Extra shot for extra luck? It’s on me.”

  Eh. Why not. Not like the jitters would bother him. He’d just be playing video games or something. “Lay it on me.”

  Chub nodded. “It’s the only way I drink ‘em. And look at me!” He spread his arms wide, baring his big aproned belly, as the warm light glistened on his bald pate.

  Proto felt sad. “Maybe make it two shots.”

  “My man!” approved Chub. “We call that a black eye.”

  If a fist had just given Proto a black eye, he’d still probably feel better than he felt right now. For it was only now, sitting in Starbucks and staring at Chub, that he felt just how much he’d lost when he’d woken today and his dream had ended. The life in his life was gone.

  “Sounds like exactly what I need,” he confirmed.

  “That’s the spirit.” The barista turned and checked a pitcher. “Ugh. Gonna need a sec on the cold foam. Have a seat, I’ll bring it to you.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” Off to a nearby table strode our Visitor—no, not a visitor. There were no visitors. Just Proto, the 29.5-year-old dullard with a boring job and video games.

  Wait, no. Twenty-seven years old. He’d lost even his age when he woke up!

  Sighing, he sat and stared glumly at his phone. Within a few taps, he was on RPGClassics.com and searching for an Illusion of Gaia walkthrough.

  Here he was, leading that fulfilling life he’d dreamt of. Living the dream!

  He squinted at 16-bit graphics and felt like life and time had passed him by.

  A coffee plopped in front of him. It was in a red holiday cup, which was a bit odd in early Spring.

  “I owe you,” Proto absently called, scrolling through his phone. Lifting the drink to his lips, he gulped some down. Hm. Not bad. I’ll have to do red eyes more often. Or was it a black eye?

  “Is this red or black?” he asked, eying the coffee.

  “Red, as far as I know,” a girl answered. “Or were you making fun of my hair?”

  Proto looked up. There, looming over him, her brow arched above cerulean eyes, her loose-bound black ponytail falling over her green apron and reaching her waist, was The Barista. Or—as her nametag spelled out right in front of him—Red.

  Red? Odd name.

  “Oh, hi Blue,” Proto replied, as the part of his personality he’d cultivated at Somnus’ Palace took over instinctively. He tapped his coffee. “I was wondering if this was a red eye or a black eye.”

  Red tilted her head and blinked her blue eyes twice. “Hey. I recognize you. Tracksuit Guy! Sheesh, your hair’s all combed. And that blazer! You lose a bet?” She giggled.

  Suddenly, reality felt a lot like his dream of Somnus’ Palace after all.

  “I’m sorry!” she laughed on. “No more Tracksuit Guy. I’m sorry, Slick. May I call you Slick?”

  “Sure, or Proto. Take your pick, Blue.” He sipped his coffee.

  “I will, thanks, Slick,” she instantly answered. “And I’m going to use ‘Proto’ for my next cat, because that’s an awesome name.”

  “Red’s pretty good too. Why not that?” he suggested.

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Red glanced away. “It’s a little like, ‘Hi, my element is fire, and I choose Charmander,’ isn’t it?” She blinked twice at him.

  Proto stared.

  “Red, I have an important question for you,” he said.

  “Oh?” She looked at him.

  “What do you think of Blue?” he asked.

  “That Bubblebeaming bitch?” she shot back. “He can take his water element and go cry some watery tears to his Gramps, while I’m eating roast Squirtle soup.”

  Then, she blinked twice.

  This is going to work, isn’t it? This is really going to work!

  Proto laughed helplessly. “I’m so sorry I called you Blue, Red.”

  “I’m so sorry I called you Tracksuit Guy, Slick.” Her hand was resting on the seat facing Proto. She looked down at it, then up at him. She opened her mouth.

  “Here, have a seat—” began Proto.

  “Well, I need coffee!” she declared at the same time, releasing the seat.

  Then, her eyes widened and she grasped it again. “Or . . . ?”

  She blinked twice, then released the seat. “Yes, coffee!” Red reddened and started scurrying off.

  “I’d suggest a red eye!” called Proto, tapping his milky brown beverage.

  “Maybe! But I’ll have mine black, I think,” said Red, pausing her retreat. “Or maybe I want a black eye black. A black black eye?” She tilted her head thoughtfully. “Whatever it is, it’ll match my hair!”

  “What’s black and blue and red all over?” asked Proto.

  “Blue, after I’m done with him!” she suggested instantly.

  “Blue, after . . . ” Proto blinked. “Yes. Yes, that’s right.”

  She pointed two fingers to her eyes, then Proto’s eyes, then back and forth a few times.

  Proto double-gunned her, then fired.

  “Red used Reflect!” she replied.

  Proto’s eyes widened. Then, he recoiled twice, grasping his heart.

  She giggled, drifting back toward his table and clasping the seat.

  Then, her eyes widened. “Right. Coffee!” She hied back toward the service counter.

  But Chub was already there, sliding a black coffee to her. “Here, I messed up and made an extra earlier.”

  “Thanks, Chub Chub!” She smiled cheerily.

  “No probs, Your Redness,” he replied to her back. For she already was hurrying back to Proto’s table, sipping her coffee as she sat.

  “How is it?” he asked. “Exquisite? Delectable?”

  “Look, Slick, we’re working on our Michelin Star, okay?” She gulped some more down. “But it does the trick. It’s good.”

  “Can’t be great without being good first,” he philosophized.

  “Ooh, very deep!” Red clapped two-fingered. “Got more where that came from?”

  “Um. Can’t climb a mountain without taking a first step?” he offered.

  “Heh.” She looked away.

  “Oh no,” lamented Proto. “The dreaded ‘heh and look away and it will all be over soon’!”

  Red wrinkled her nose and laughed at him. “What?”

  “You have my permission to leave before you die of boredom,” he said.

  “What are you on about?” she scoffed.

  “Uh, something about climbing mountains, I think,” he recalled.

  “Right. Yeah, I just thought it was ironic you’d say that,” she noted, “since I do have a dream of starting a café on a mountain and getting a Michelin Star. Or just some customers, that’d be nice too.”

  “Can’t climb a mountain without taking a first step!” Proto philosophized.

  “Indeed!” Red raised her coffee toward him. “To first steps!”

  “Hear hear!” He clinked his cup against hers—well, it was more of a flimsy clack, really—and drank.

  Then, he raised his cup. “To Red . . . eyes!”

  Red shook her head grimly.

  “Yeah, I’m here every night. Let’s try that again.” Proto raised his cup. “To good dreams and great coffee!”

  “Yes!” She clacked her cup and drank. “Someday, you’ll try Red’s Red Eye, and you’ll know the peak of coffee bliss. From the peak of a mountain!”

  The peak of coffee bliss? Not likely, a wistful voice in Proto’s head mused, as he recalled a certain black mug with white-lacquered cracks. But then, it wasn’t fair to blame reality for falling short of a dream, was it? And, really, who knew what the future held?

  “Sounds like a party,” said Proto. “Can I join?”

  “Welcome to the party! I brew and heal, you taste and tank!” declared Red.

  “Nerd alert,” called Chub. “Also, I need help.” There was now a line of seven customers.

  Red blinked, then stood and started toward the counter—then spun back to Proto. “Um.” She set her cup on his table. “Guard my coffee, Slick!”

  Proto double-gunned her, then fired.

  She whirled into an evasive maneuver and launched an invisible fireball with the sweep of an arm.

  Proto recoiled from the invisible blast and aughed in agony, clutching his invisible third-degree burns.

  Red tittered and tilted her head at him.

  “Where the F is my expresso?” yelled a customer.

  Red blinked and scurried behind the counter. “Coming right up, Sir!” Her lips curved up. “One espresso, coming up expresso!” She glanced at Proto.

  Stolen story; please report.

  He leaned protectively over her coffee, guarding it warily. Narrowing his eyes at the yelling customer’s back, Proto pointed a finger and single-gunned him.

  Red threw back her head and laughed.

  “Are you laughing at me?” objected the customer. “While I wait for my expresso? My express-slow, I should say!”

  In fairness, Red was laughing directly at him from a couple yards away.

  “It’s my fault, Sir,” called Proto, drawing the angry man’s stare. “She can’t stop laughing at my name.”

  The guy turned slowly to him. “What’s this funny name of yours, Funny Man?”

  Proto faced Red grimly. “Slow Bro.”

  Red threw back her head and cackled. “It’s a double rhyme!” she cried.

  The man stared back and forth between them in scowling bafflement. Then, “Gimme that,” he growled to Chub, seizing an espresso from his outstretched hand and tossing it down in one gulp.

  “One expresso!” announced Chub flatly, still holding out his empty cup hand, as the grouchy man stomped out.

  Slow Bro. Oh, what an exquisite mix of happiness and sadness, exuberance and wistfulness, was rushing and tingling through Proto right now. He was watching his dreams become reality—yet, in so doing, was reminded of all the other dreams he’d had.

  Red and Chub worked through the remaining customers without any further outbursts or double rhymes. And soon, the black-haired barista was heading back to Proto’s table. Her footsteps were in time with a bass beat coming from the ceiling.

  “You’re literally raising the roof as you walk,” observed Proto, pointing upward.

  “What can I say, these people know me!” Red archly flipped her black hair back. “Yeah, it gets like that in the evening here. Stupid bar upstairs.”

  “Stupid?” he asked.

  “Maybe a perfectly nice bar, I don’t know,” she said. “But their drinks cost more than my coffee, and I can’t even afford my coffee. So, stupid it is!”

  “I see now why you had me guard this treasure.” Proto gestured at her coffee.

  “Yes! I hope you guarded it double-carefully, Slick!” she said.

  “Two eyes, two ears, and two guns.” Proto doubled-gunned her demonstratively.

  Red nodded her approval. “Any security breaches?”

  “Just one.” He tapped his chest guiltily.

  “You drank my black black eye?!” cried Red.

  Proto winced and held his hands out apologetically.

  “That’s okay.” She sipped it. “Tastes even better now! It tastes . . . slick.”

  He raised his brow. “Just kidding, I didn’t touch it. You’re making shit up, Blue.”

  “Oh come on, don’t do me like that!” she pouted.

  “Here, I’ll drink some if you want,” offered Proto.

  “Yes, you owe me that much now!” she chided.

  Proto put it to his lips and sipped. He felt vaguely titillated and happy, like in all those 1950s photos of teenage couples with two straws in one sundae.

  “Mm. You used some secret ingredient, didn’t you?” he observed.

  “That’s a secret.” Red took it back and sipped it. “Mm. Even better than it was. Now it has two secret ingredients!”

  “Glad I could contribute. Give it a personal touch,” said Proto.

  “I hope so!” she replied. “Because when I have my own café, there’s going to be a drink called The Slick. And I’ll need your help making it.”

  He narrowed his eyes and quirked his lips. “How’s the pay?”

  “Minimal,” she admitted. “But I guarantee, you’ll get lots of free coffee!”

  He tilted his head back and forth weighingly. “How are the other perks?”

  “Dunno. I’ll be there, I guess!” she offered.

  “Deal.” Proto held a hand out.

  She giggled, then shook it firmly.

  Two hours passed this way, with Red scurrying to the counter whenever the line got too long, but otherwise chatting at Proto’s table.

  Glancing at the window, Proto saw that it was getting dark outside. This confused him at first, since he’d woken not all that long ago.

  Then, thinking back to last night—which, from his perspective, still felt like several months ago—he recalled he’d stayed up till four playing Illusion of Gaia, slept through the day, and woken up in the mid-afternoon, like he were still in college or something.

  Heck, he was a couple years closer to college age than he’d thought!

  Across from him, Red sighed. “I think I have to head out now.”

  “Somewhere cool?” asked Proto.

  “Alas, uncool. Just the lady doctor. I wouldn’t rush but . . . I’m sort of five minutes late already.” Red rose and sighed again. “Also, I should probably get to the bathroom any second. Since I drank a black black eye and I’ve been holding it in for an hour. And if I don’t make it, that’d be a real problem at this particular doctor—TMI, TMI. Anyway!”

  Proto couldn’t help but laugh. Warmth tingled through him. “Well, nice to meet you, Blue. You have nice dodging skills.” He speed-drew and double-gunned her.

  Red whirled into an evasive maneuver and launched an invisible fire blast at Proto, who recoiled in scorched abjection.

  She laughed, then winced and danced back and forth on her legs for a second. “Sorry, bladder dance. I may be uncool—like, Gen Z-level uncool—but I have nice dodging skills and dancing skills.”

  “I’m honored to have been uncool with you, Blue,” said Proto.

  “Yes!” Red affirmed. “‘The only value in this valueless world is what you share with someone when you’re uncool.’ My favorite quote!”

  “Who said that?” asked Proto.

  “Some cool music critic,” she answered. “Well, no. Some uncool guy who wrote lines for a cool music critic in a movie.”

  “We gotta sell ourselves where we can,” said Proto.

  “That’s the spirit!” Red’s fist shot up—then back down in front of her apron, as her eyebrows shot up. “And . . . I gotta go.” She waddle-ran to the bathroom.

  Proto shook his head and chortled quietly.

  Then, he stood and stretched. He didn’t want to leave, but he supposed this was the right moment.

  “Been here a while,” called Chub. “I thought you’d dressed up to go somewhere important?”

  “I . . . did,” replied Proto.

  “Are you gonna make it?” asked the bald barista.

  Proto looked toward the bathroom. “To be determined.”

  Chub’s lips curved up. His head turned in the same direction, then back to Proto. “Well, I hope your heart’s in it. Because, I’ll tell you what, it’s not the only one.”

  Proto blinked. “You mean . . . ?”

  Chub waved it away before Proto could finish. “Best get going. I’m not sure she made it. Which might be awkward.”

  “Good call.” Proto waved. He felt like he were in a dream. He wasn’t sure what had real meaning and what was just dreamy randomness. “Till next time.”

  “Cheers,” called Chub.

  Proto walked out the front door into the brisk evening air. He took a deep breath, smiling dumbly, then let it out.

  He realized that, technically, he hadn’t done what he’d come here to do. He hadn’t Asked Out Barista Girl.

  And yet, somehow, he felt that things could not possibly have gone better.

  He’d better move. She’d be coming out here any second, and he felt things already had ended on the right note.

  But where to? Back home? To play Illusion of Gaia?

  It didn’t feel right. After all, he’d just spent months—or at least, what felt like months—going on dream visits, odysseys, and what have you, none of which had ended in video games. No, they’d all ended in one place. And it had great drinks.

  Proto turned to look at the bar above Starbucks. Black’s Rock, said a small sign in retro lettering.

  Hm. Why not? He liked retro lettering.

  Into the door and up the stairs strolled Proto, feeling light as a cloud.

  It occurred to him that the Proto of several months ago—or yesterday, rather—had rarely been the sort to saunter into bars alone.

  Worse, after all that time at Somnus’ Palace, he’d probably end up ordering some weird Somnus-drink that no bar in the country would have. “Got any eighty-year-old armagnac?”

  He smirked. Whatever. Life was like a tire. Just keep on rolling and you’re good.

  Proto rolled across the threshold, squinting at the shadowy bottlescape inside.

  Indeed, one wall was bottles—mostly whisky, it looked like. Another wall was empty bottles. The other brick walls were covered in neon band-logo signs and framed albums.

  Music was coming from an old-fashioned jukebox—New Born by Muse. He started humming along. Man, I haven’t heard this in seven, eight years! He had a good feeling about this place.

  The feeling grew when he reached the bar and, squinting, could make out the labels on the many bottles. No eighty-year-old armagnac, alas. But he recognized many of the whiskies that Somnus and Lilac had favored.

  Even the barstools were nice—swiveling barber chairs in maroon. Sitting in one, he immediately felt he’d be comfortable here for hours at a time.

  All that was missing was the bartender. But this wasn’t terribly odd on a weeknight. And the presence of a few other lonely drinkers confirmed the bartender must be somewhere. Probably catching a smoke or something.

  Proto took out his phone, started scrolling through that Illusion of Gaia walkthrough, and waited.

  “This seat taken?”

  He blinked his reverie away and glanced up.

  The girl looking down at him had naturally narrow hazel eyes, but they were widened with irony. Her red hair fell down her tight black T-shirt and stopped just shy of her tight cutoff jean shorts.

  Both pieces of clothing fit her as well as they had eight years ago. If anything, she looked a bit slimmer. But maybe that was just the loss of baby fat.

  “Hi Karen,” Proto managed. He gestured her to the seat. “It’s taken now.”

  Yes, all in all, she looked much as he remembered her.

  Muse Concert Girl—his high school classmate who’d pretended to like him so he’d give her his second ticket to a Muse concert, effectively taking it back from his friend Yemos. The girl who, a week later, against all odds, while stopping by her aunt’s then-unoccupied house to grab a guitar, somehow had become his first.

  Maybe “girl” wasn’t the word anymore, technically. But it was much too late for him to change how he thought of Muse Concert Girl.

  Who knows? Maybe to her, I’m Muse Concert Boy!

  She climbed atop the stool. “Thanks, Moo.”

  Or just Moo. Her term of endearment for him had seen a lot of use during their short-lived relationship. She’d even made him a mixtape and labeled it Moo.

  “How have you been for the last . . . eight and a half years?” asked Proto, doing the math quickly.

  Proto hadn’t thought much about Karen this last half-decade. Mostly just when Yemos ragged on him for taking back that Muse ticket and giving it to her instead. Even now, they occasionally had a laugh about when Proto had lost his wits to Karen.

  Of course, a week later, he’d lost rather more to her. So, all in all, he had absolutely no regrets.

  Well, maybe the fact that he’d broken up with her so soon. But who could blame him? Finding out about the whole using-him-to-get-a-Muse-ticket thing had impacted him deeply. He’d literally found out while making her a mixtape summarizing his feelings for her!

  That was the moment he’d let his teenage romantic dreams die and thrown himself into his boring studies and boring career.

  Of course, his time in Somnus’ Palace had deviated wildly from that life path. But then, that’d turned out to be a dream too.

  “Eight years, six months and sixteen days?” Karen responded. “Not bad, all told.”

  Proto squinted. He couldn’t tell if she was messing with him. But she’d always been that way.

  “You’re looking better these days. Though a little slick for my tastes.” Karen eyed him. “I’d almost be proud to call you my ex.”

  “Wow. That’s almost a compliment,” observed Proto.

  “But . . . could you, like, undo another button or something? Here, I’ll ruffle the hair.” She reached and—just like that—his hair was ruffled. She handled the button too. “That’s better. Now you look like you’re from a 60s album instead of a 50s album.”

  “That a good thing?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “Personal tastes. But hey, isn’t everything?”

  Proto pointed at her. “You goddamn hippie beatnik,” he gruffly spoke.

  Karen tilted back her red head and chortled. “You and me both, Moo! Or at least, you were at age eighteen. I think?” She thought for a second. “No, maybe that was just me. Yeah, I know nothing whatsoever about your views. Except we like the same music.”

  “My views? On what?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. On what’s cool!” she shrugged.

  “Hm. Someone told me earlier, ‘The only value in this valueless world is what you share with someone when you’re uncool,’” replied Proto. “Quote from—”

  “Quote from some old music critic, right? Except not,” Karen retorted. “That quote’s bullshit. Which is why he never said it, and some backroom Hollywood dweeb had to put it in his mouth after he died. Cool is cool. And that’s true no matter how much our fellow Millennials tell themselves they’re cool for being heartless, uncool, corporate sellouts.”

  “Heartless and uncool?” Proto raised his eyebrows. “Tell me how you really feel.”

  “Hey, I feel deeply about these things!” waved Karen. “I may be rude and lewd and irreverent, but I’m a softie deep down. Very authentic! Very Gen X! Even though technically I’m too young.”

  Proto couldn’t help himself. “Authentic . . . except when it comes to getting Muse tickets?”

  “Proto,” Karen replied calmly, “I’m so Gen X that I pretended I was just pretending to like you to get a stupid concert ticket. Because telling you the truth—that I’d had a crush on you since before puberty—would’ve been way too awkward and maudlin. I mean, I had black nails and lipstick and idolized Stevie Nicks. I couldn’t do that shit. Not even after you broke up with me!”

  Proto stared and searched for words. But one of the basic facts of his life, on which he’d based years of decision-making, had just crumbled away. A whole structure of understanding was collapsing in his head. Where was he supposed to find words?

  “But yeah, now that I’ve bared all my secrets, like the wannabe Gen X softie I am,” she went on, “it’s your turn. What are your views on stuff?”

  “Um.” Proto tried to think, but he still was reeling from her revelation. “Just out to make the world a fairer place, one dream at a time!” he declared in his best Somnus-voice.

  “Is that a movie quote? I know music, not movies.” She wrinkled her nose at him. “Anyway, yeah, a fair world would be nice. In a fair world, One Big Holiday would’ve topped the charts, and rock wouldn’t have died in the 80s and 90s.”

  “I don’t know about that. Learning to Fly? Eminence Front? Walk of Life?” suggested Proto.

  She waved dismissively. “Just 60s and 70s bands, gasping out their last dying breaths.”

  “Tom Petty? AC/DC? Styx? The Police?” he offered.

  “Okay, fine, it died in the 90s!” she grudgingly acknowledged.

  “Guns and Roses?” suggested Proto.

  She waved dismissively. “They wrote their good stuff in the 80s, got famous, and released it later. You know November Rain is from 1983? 1983!”

  “Green Day?” he proposed.

  “Good, and 90s. But not rock,” she said.

  “The Traveling Wilburys?”

  “That’s zombie rock,” she shrugged. “Good stuff. But they were dead and just going through the motions.”

  “Uh . . . Red Hot Chili Peppers? Weezer?”

  “I rest my case,” she said.

  He tilted his head at her. “Muse. That was 1999, right?”

  “Yes! That album killed the 90s!” she cried. “And they deserved it.”

  Proto laughed helplessly. So did she.

  “So, do you come here often?” he found himself asking.

  Now, Karen tilted her head at him. “You could say that. Almost every night, in fact. And most days.”

  Proto stared at her. Grim premonitions filled him. Every night? Every day?

  He knew, of course, that these things could happen to anyone. It wasn’t just “some guy” out there, drinking himself silly. It was anyone—your next door neighbor, your coworker, or, indeed, your high school ex. But her? His first? It made him sad.

  Worse, he abruptly wondered if he’d had something to do with it. Their breakup had come at a fragile point in life. And apparently, it’d hit her much harder than he’d thought. What if she’d never moved on? What if she’d found her solace in . . . something else?

  Wide-eyed, he stared at the hundreds of bottles on the shelves.

  “Hell, sometimes I sleep here!” she went on. “More and more as the years go by.”

  Proto winced. What have I done!

  She was looking at him now, but he wasn’t sure what to say. “Um . . . you know where the bathroom is?” he managed.

  “Do I know?” Furrowing her brow, she smirked and pointed. “Do I know my own birthday? Do I know my own last name?”

  He winced. “Thanks.” And he started off.

  “Wait, I’m getting a drink,” she called. “What do you want?”

  Ugh. He tried to think of something she wouldn’t want. “Um . . . some old peated whisky, I guess.”

  “Really? No hard seltzer? You’ve grown up!” she approved. “But haven’t we all. Two old peated whiskies it is.”

  He cringed as he walked away. It was actually true that he needed to use the bathroom. But his guilt only grew upon remembering why:

  Lifting the drink to his lips, he gulped some down. “This red or black?”

  “Red, as far as I know,” a girl answered. “Or were you making fun of my hair?”

  Proto sighed as he relieved himself. He’d never change, would he? He never should’ve come here.

  Life’s like a tire? Just keep on rolling and you’re good? Maybe. But, if so, it was time to roll on out. As soon as he drank this whisky.

  It was waiting for him when he returned to the bar. So was Karen.

  She pointed at his brown drink. “It’s neat. I gave you the benefit of the doubt.”

  “Perfect,” he replied. Somnus had threatened to banish him when he’d asked for a forty-year-old whisky on the rocks.

  “Better hurry, or I’m going to finish two before your first,” she chided.

  He winced, sipping his whisky. “What’s the rush?”

  “As I recall,” she mused, “I said the same to you eight years ago.”

  He choked.

  “But it’s okay,” she went on, eyes gleaming. “Remember how my aunt got home just as we were leaving?”

  “Um.” Proto looked at her. Do I remember my own birthday? Do I remember my own last name? he wanted to say. But a nod was the best he could manage.

  “It was so perfect!” Karen continued, adopting a nasally falsetto. “‘I’m baking a couple cream pies, if you two want to stick around!’ says Auntie Ronda. ‘One’s enough,’ says Moo. And walks away.” She chuckled and shook her head. “WTF, Moo. WTF.”

  “I mean . . . look.” Proto had rarely felt so flushed since age eighteen. And most of those times had involved Karen. “Was I wrong?”

  “Yes,” she replied evenly, sipping her whisky.

  “What, we shouldn’t have rushed?” he said.

  “No, that worked out fine. Swimmingly, in fact,” she waved. “But you were wrong. One’s not enough.” Her narrow eyes widened at him.

  He blinked twice, searching for words.

  “So, when you finish that whisky, I’m going to give you a second. A little older, a little hotter.” She shrugged lightly. “And more peated. What, what’s that look on your face?”

  “Um.” Proto shook away the giddiness. “What do I owe you for the first?”

  “For your first? Nothing. I don’t charge. And if I did, that Muse ticket you gave me would be plenty.” Karen tilted her head, light glimmering in her eyes. “Oh, the drink? Why would I charge an old friend for a drink?”

  At this point, Proto was feeling flustered from head to toe, and everywhere in between.

  “No, you’re good,” she assured him. “On both counts.”

  “Alright, well, second round’s on me,” he managed, throwing a couple twenties onto the bar.

  She sighed and stared at him exasperatedly.

  Then, tossing her red hair over her shoulder, she lifted herself from her stool—her taut shirt tightening further around her top, and her jean shorts sliding further up her bottom—and walked around behind the bar.

  Proto stared. “Um.”

  She ignored him and, grabbing another peated whisky from the top shelf, poured it into two new glasses. She set them on the bar, then slid his two bills back to him. “There’s your change.”

  “ . . . what?” He felt utterly discombobulated. This whole day felt like more of a dream than his actual months-long dream.

  “You can leave a tip, but I’m not accepting cash or credit,” she went on. “So you’ll have to get creative.” Her hazel eyes glimmered in the neon light.

  “ . . . I’m so lost right now,” said Proto.

  Karen chuckled quietly, leaning on the bar, facing him from the other side. “So, unfortunately, I have to head out now. My replacement just got here.” She thumbed toward a guy who’d just walked in, with hair like Somnus and clothes like Jag. “And I’m late for an appointment. Girl doctor.”

  He blinked and stared. “Yeah, I still don’t understand.”

  “What, ‘girl doctor’?” she replied incredulously. “The vagician? The snatchquack? The gynosaurus? Fish vet? Twat doc?”

  He shook his head. “Yeah, no, I’m with you there.”

  “No you’re not! No Moos allowed there,” she answered cheerfully. “Though pretty much anywhere else is on the table. Say, my Auntie Ronda’s. Or this table.”

  “No, I mean,” Proto shook his head, “why are you there?” He pointed behind the bar.

  Karen tilted her head and smiled, her red hair falling over her front.

  Then, she walked out from behind the bar. “I’m not anymore!” She held her hands out demonstratively.

  “‘Sup, Boss,” said the replacement. He tossed his bag behind the bar, then headed to the bathroom.

  Proto felt like the world was one big conspiracy to confuse him.

  “Before I go,” Karen noted to Proto, “there’s something I should mention. I don’t go by Karen anymore.”

  He blinked at her. “No?”

  “No. The last few years haven’t been kind to my name,” she explained. “Now, I go by my last name, Black. Karen Black.” She looked around. “I hope you like my place. Black’s Rock. Get it? My name’s Black and I like rock?”

  . . . Well, that answers some questions.

  “Thanks for breaking that down for me,” said Proto. “Yeah, this place rocks.”

  “Oh, you punny shitface,” chided Black. “See you soon, Moo. Sooner than eight years, I hope!”

  “I think that can be arranged,” confirmed Proto.

  “Good. And then we can talk about that tip.” Black rubbed her thumb and index finger together, as though holding a bundle of bills. “And, hint hint, one’s not enough.” Her eyes gleamed.

  “Two tickets?” suggested Proto as she strolled away.

  “Sure, if you promise to take me twice,” she called back. “Each time!” And out she went.

  Proto stared dumbly at her afterimage in his mind’s eye. He wasn’t sure if he was seeing the swish of her red hair and the sway of her stride eight seconds ago or eight years ago. The two suddenly didn’t feel so very far apart.

  Memories swirled up like the mists in all those dream visits, threatening to sweep him away. But this was no dream. And he was ready to be swept off.

  “You want a drink, Dude?” asked the replacement bartender.

  But Proto barely heard him as he ambled from the room. Reality seemed only half-real. He felt like those wandering, shadowy dreamers he’d once watched with Lilac—or dreamt of watching, anyway.

  The one big difference was the big dumb smile on his face.

  “Oh-kay, my man,” mumbled the bartender behind him.

  Down Proto went along the stairway into the dusklit suburban street, and basked in the brisk air. He barely noticed the Starbucks at his back.

  Off he strolled, letting instinct lead him home, like a bird winging south, drawn by the warmth of what loomed before him.

  She wasn’t pretending.

  The thought warmed him further. Maybe that warmth was from eight years of stupid misconceptions burning away. Or maybe it was just that eight years had only made her hotter.

  He felt like a hot air balloon, borne aloft by ardent thoughts.

  Soon afterward, when he sat in front of his T.V. and picked up his game controller, the thoughts kept coming. There was zero chance he’d make any progress in Illusion of Gaia tonight.

  And, honestly, who the Hell cared?

  Instead, Proto wandered to the closet and pulled down that tracksuit from the top shelf. He scanned it for a while with a fond smile. “You know, I think we learned a lot about life together. Even if I was dreaming.”

  “A little slick for my tastes,” she’d said.

  Well, I’ll show you slick! mused Proto giddily. He donned his tracksuit. It felt impossibly comfortable. Hey, he’d earned it.

  With a satisfied sigh, he shoved his hands into the shirt pockets. That’s right. Shirt pockets!

  His fingers hit something inside. That was odd. He generally only used shirt pockets for his hands, not objects.

  Frowning, he clasped it and pulled it out, scrutinizing it—a red rock.

  A red rock? Why would I have . . . ?

  Proto’s eyes went round as Breath Tokens, as the memory flashed through him:

  The girl dashed up and handed him a dull red rock, about as wide as her palm. “This stone is very special. I lost it for years, then found it miles and miles away! Weirdest thing ever.”

  “ . . . and you’re giving it to me?” asked Proto.

  “This is a dream, silly!” she retorted. “It’s not like I lose my real one by giving this to you.”

  “What the F,” he murmured aloud, gawking at the dull red rock. For there was no doubt about it—this was that rock. Mercune’s rock.

  His worldview had been demolished and rebuilt twice today already. Now, a hurricane had just swept in and blown the whole thing away.

  “What the actual F.”