And yet if nothing mattered, why not surrender to Dr Salmon’s process, and wipe out the pain? LOL, says a young man behind him. ROFLMAO, says the young man’s friend. Words he knows thanks to Flora. And they’re right. The idea is laughable. Especially when you consider the possibility that Dr Salmon is a trap that Merriweather set, and on the other side of her process lurks professional ruin and a different form of insanity: Logan the medium.

If only he could make no decision at all and yet hold himself together. If only he could stay exactly as he is and pass through this crisis, unbroken. For that is all he wants, now that he thinks about it: for the world to stop changing and pressing in on him; for the future to stop unfolding and overlaying Flora, pushing her further and further into the past; for Jules and Tom to accept him as he is.

Coming through the door now, as though Logan’s thoughts are warping his eyesight, there’s someone who looks a little like Tom, who could even be Tom if he wasn’t laughing with a woman on his arm. This almost-Tom spots Logan staring, changes direction and comes to a stop (with his woman) right in front of his table.

Finlay.

Logan, taken aback, recalibrates.

Tom.

This is my father, he explains to his companion. To him, What are you doing here?

A meeting, says Logan. You?

Nodding at the wall of printers, Mei Mei’s got something to pick up.

Good, says Logan, feeling the meaninglessness of his response. Yet somehow, because they were unprepared for each other, he has not fallen directly into Arsehole. You’re looking well, he says, and means it. So well that he didn’t even recognize his own son.

The pills I guess, says Tom. Well-groomed, happy-looking Tom. Clothes-and-a-smile-that-fit Tom.

The Anesthine.

Yep.

He’s wearing the glasses again. So is Mei Mei. The real-spectacle frames imbue an aura of intelligence and the inward focus of the wearer’s pupils augment the illusion of deep thinking. An alert must have popped up on Mei Mei’s. She nods brightly, says, Excuse me, Mr Logan, nice to meet you, and heads off towards the printer bank.

You have a moment? asks Logan, nodding at the spare chair.

I guess. Tom sits down, but his eyes are on something more interesting, close to his face.

You can say I’m your sponsor, says Logan.

What?

If any of your friends see me. If you don’t want them to know I’m your father.

Oh, says Tom, focusing on him now. I don’t care.

The nonchalance seems genuine. The words are suffused with disinterest rather than spite.

You don’t care? asks Logan.

If people know who you are. Why should I? I’m done with all that. What happened happened. The past is the past.