Some were malevolent. Some were benign. I could sense familiar ones, but they were being forced out. To reach them I would have to squeeze between others and risk slipping into that pit. And the others, they were grabbing me, clinging to me like octopuses—and the second I imagined that, that’s exactly what they became. Millions of octopuses suffocating me, reaching for me, ensnaring me.

Then one reality loomed before me. It was neither bad nor good, light nor dark. It was curious. It desperately wanted to know what it would be like to exist. I could sense that this reality carried with it great and far-reaching change. I didn’t know what that change would be, but it was clearly not a boomerang reality. It would take me even further away from the world I knew.

It took hold of me, longing to envelop me, but I would not let that happen. I would not be passively consumed by yet another unknown, opaque world. I would control this. It wouldn’t devour me; I would devour it.

So I threw my arms around it, embracing it. I pulled it in. For a moment I felt like a soldier throwing himself on a grenade. But instead of detonating, it relaxed. It curled in upon itself, settling deep within me, happy to have a place. I felt its contentment. Its relief. Its joy at finally being real.

I opened my eyes.

I was on the turf. The coach was looming over me.

“Ash, look at me,” he said. He held out his index finger and slowly moved it back and forth. “Follow my finger,” he said. I did. He seemed satisfied. “Can you sit up?”

I did, but the world swirled around me. My brain felt like an angry zit about to pop. I couldn’t think clearly, much less access whatever memories filled this world. I took a few moments. The world stopped spinning. I stood up, digging my cleats into the turf. I kept my balance. Bit by bit, I took in the things around me.

The Storks’ quarterback was still down. Out cold. They had taken off his helmet. His coach and trainer were kneeling, taking his vitals. I realized I hadn’t just taken him down, I had taken him out. Had I killed him? Had I hit him that hard? For a terrible moment I thought that I had—but then he groaned, and his eyes fluttered.

My coach let out a shuddering breath of relief, then he looked to me. “Never seen a sack like that,” he told me, but he didn’t sound all that pleased. “Damn, Ash—it’s the freaking Storks. I’d never tell you not to play your best . . . but was that really necessary?”