And that’s how we ended up here on our pink sand safe harbor, the final thread in the multiverse before everything dissolves into meaninglessness.

*   *   *

I’d like to tell you that the other guys in the wolf pack who we left behind made it. The guys who came to the moon to be on the big screen, even if only for a few minutes in the background, so that some little part of them could live on even when they were gone. I didn’t know them. I hadn’t even talked to all of them, but I knew that they didn’t deserve what happened. Even if you want to blame Logan for trapping them there, or them for being stupid enough to follow him. Or greed, or lust. Or me, or anyone else.

I’d like to tell you that they made it, so let’s say they did. The airlock doors held back the blast and the armed men trying to shoot out the window told Kaori and Figueiredo that the Envisioner must’ve overloaded. There was no way that me and Yusuf survived the blast—it was a miracle even that they did—so at least that part of their mission was successful. They could all head home and pat themselves on the backs. Kiss their kids goodnight and all that.

Weeks later, I asked the Envisioner left what had happened to Logan. The machine hesitated—by then I could read its moods, like it was my dog when it was stubborn or snippy. Just a boy and his predictive machine lounging in the sun. I could mostly get it to show me whatever I wanted. Video simulations on its screen of the past, or the future. Alternate timelines. Which sounds like fun until you spend a day getting drunk in the sun while your boyfriend isn’t speaking to you and you ask the machine to take you on a joyride of your past. And the thing is like, you sure? Soon enough it plays you footage of happy times, sure, the birthdays, and the documentary release parties, and Genesis dancing on stage as you watch in awe, and the first second your eyes met Yusuf’s outside your little cabin in Connecticut.