Pass through the glass or let himself be deflected? To go forward, he will have to walk through himself; push himself out of the way and enter the darkness. It will surely be cold. And who knows what’s in there?

To his right, a corridor that seems to have life at the end of it: the bright illuminations of an eatery, people murmuring anonymous conversation. But he wants to be alone.

This isn’t the choice he needs to make. It doesn’t matter either way.

‌3a.

Chemistry

‌

Reflected

There is a moment of paralysis as the decision takes shape. Behind him, the Alterman Centre’s bright corridors hum patiently. Here I am, he thinks, at one of those semi-transparent surfaces scientists use to split the wave of a single atom in the box pair experiment. If I were pure light, I would both bounce off and pass through.

The face that stares back at him solidifies, and the darkness disappears. Look at yourself, Logan. He tugs the creases out of his jacket, straightens his tie, and turns down the corridor.

In the brightly lit, chattering room, a gaggle of students hovers by the 3D printers, waiting for objects to be sprayed into existence. Whether these are shoes they have ordered on the internet or models of bridges for their engineering coursework, Logan isn’t concerned to discover. The rest of the room is livelier. At glass-screened tables, more students sit nursing coffees, gaming or swiping their e-mails. There is a sign on the wall that says ‘Cafeteria’, but the room boasts nothing besides drink vending machines and another bank of 3D printers devoted to printing food. Though Logan is hungry, he is not hungry for replicated protein, and plumps for a simple coffee – real granules! genuine hot water! – before taking the only unoccupied table.

Is he thinking straight? He can’t tell. Not enough sleep, not enough food, too much coffee, and this terrifying magma-chamber of emotion that threatens to blow him open at any moment. How can he make any rational decision? The last decision he made resulted in a low-grade re-enactment of the crucifixion. Perhaps he should resign himself to losing the lot – his mind, his career, Jules, the house. For what did any of it matter without Flora? Flora was gone, gone, and there was no bringing her back, no talking to the dead, no matter what nonsense Dr Salmon had visited upon him; it was all just shades of his own madness. Was he not better off surrendering to it, descending into it? He had lost everything already. What else mattered?