But it wasn’t gone. It was still in my head. In my memories. I needed to hold those memories for both of us, until they were his again. I hadn’t seen what he saw that night. All I saw were people showing support. But he saw people who thought giving a thumbs-up to protesters was the full extent of their civic responsibility—as if acknowledging that Black lives mattered was all it took to clear their consciences. And later, when the news chose to focus on scenes of mayhem, and fires raging in every major city, I remember thinking, Is this what Leo wants? As if there weren’t a million choices between honking your horn and burning it all to the ground.

“You were right, Leo. You were right about all of it, but I just didn’t get it. And I’m sorry.”

My voice was cracking, and my heart felt like it was looking for the nearest hole to hurl itself out of. And Leo was making that really long face you make when you’re trying not to cry and you’re pissed off that you’re not succeeding.

“You were supposed to tell me a story that would cheer me up. About flying cars, and fresh vegetables and shit.”

“You deserve to know the truth . . . Where I’m from is no wonderland. Not by a long shot.”

Leo looked off, considered it, then returned his gaze to me. “Fair enough—but I’m still down to see it,” he said. “I’d rather live in a world where hope’s alive but sick, than a world where it’s already in the morgue.”

Having Leo’s support made a world of difference. It was a call to action. I continued “training” with the Edwards each night—but after that first breakthrough, my progress was slow. My mind was so cluttered and distracted, it took forever to focus once I was in the tank. Sometimes I would just fall asleep in the warm, buoyant water. Other times, even when I could access the memory of “Elsewhere,” the various versions of reality didn’t present themselves in a meaningful way. An array of playing cards that were all facedown. A ball pit where all the balls were gray. And each time I would do nothing more than relive different versions of how I wound up here, in this wretched world.

“You have to move beyond your memory,” the Edwards told me. “Make the choice you didn’t make before.”

And I tried. I really tried. But my brain would not cooperate. On Thursday night—my last session before Friday’s game—my mind seized on Edgar Allan Poe, because we were studying his poetry in English, and the multiverse presented itself as an infinite flock of ravens, all shouting the same miserable word. I wanted to strangle them all.