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The corridor collapses again.

The dead forest is still there.

I say, “Okay, so now we know that the connections between the doors and these worlds only hold during a given session on the drug. That’s why none of your pilots ever made it back to the lab.”

“So when the drug kicks in, the corridor resets?”

“I think so.”

“Then how do we ever find our way home?”

—

Amanda begins to walk.

Faster and faster.

Until she’s jogging.

Then running.

Into a darkness that never changes.

Never ends.

The backstage of the multiverse.

The exertion is making me sweat and ratcheting my thirst to an unbearable level, but I say nothing, thinking maybe she needs this. Needs to burn through some energy. Needs to see that no matter how far she goes, this corridor will never end.

I suppose we’re both just trying to come to terms with how horrifying infinity really is.

—

Eventually, she burns out.

Slows down.

There’s nothing but the sound of our footfalls echoing into the darkness ahead of us.

I’m light-headed with hunger and thirst, and I can’t stop thinking about those two liters of water in our backpack, wanting them, but knowing we should save them.

Now we move methodically down the corridor.

I hold the lantern so I can inspect every wall of every box.

I don’t know what I’m looking for exactly.

A break in the uniformity, perhaps.

Anything that might let us exert some measure of control over where we end up.

All the while, my thoughts race in the dark—

What will happen when the water’s gone?

When the food is gone?

When the batteries that power this lantern—our only source of light—fail?

How will I ever find my way home?

I wonder how many hours have pa.s.sed since we first entered the box back at the Velocity Laboratories hangar.

I’ve lost all sense of time.

I’m faltering.

Exhaustion bears down so hard on me that sleep seems s.e.xier than water.

I glance over at Amanda, her features cold but beautiful in the blue light.

She looks terrified.

“Hungry yet?” she asks.

“Getting there.”

“I’m really thirsty, but we should save the water, right?”

“I think that’s the smart thing to do.”

She says, “I feel so disoriented, and it’s getting worse by the moment. I grew up in North Dakota, and we used to get these wild blizzards. Whiteouts. You’d be driving out on the plains, and the snow would start blowing so hard you’d lose all sense of direction. Blowing so hard it’d make you dizzy just looking at it through the winds.h.i.+eld. You’d have to pull over on the side of the road, wait it out. And sitting in the cold car, it was like the world was gone. That’s how I feel right now.”

“I’m scared too. But I’m working this problem.”

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