“In real time?”

“Yes.”

Santi turns to the crawling green line of the heart monitor. “How long is that in here?”

“Eight years.”

Silence settles in the darkened room. Santi thinks of the days, the months in the city that stretch between them and annihilation. It feels like forever and less than a heartbeat.

Thora shakes her head, marching past Santi toward the door.

“Where are you going?” he asks her.

She doesn’t turn. “I don’t know about you, but I need a fucking drink.”

They walk back across the river, the skyline a dark smear against the morning sky. The strangest thing is how real it still seems. Santi can know intellectually that he is walking through an illusion, and still believe in the breeze on his face, the gray roll of the water, the sounds of the city waking as they reach the bank and turn left toward the old town.

When they get to Der Zentaur, it’s still closed. Thora inverts one of the upended chairs outside and sits down. Inside, Santi sees Brigitta setting up. He waves at her. She taps her watch and shakes her head.

“The clock,” Thora says. “It was a countdown.”

Santi follows her gaze to the tower, hands stuck at midnight for so many worlds. Four years eleven months of compressed time. Four years eleven months of supplies gone. He tries to summon the trained professional he doesn’t remember being. “We need to assess the situation and come up with a plan.”

Thora hiccups with laughter. “All right. Here’s the situation. We’re exactly where we’ve always wanted to be, but we can’t see or touch it. And if we don’t find a way out, we’re going to starve to death inside a metal box without ever waking up.” She darts a glance through the window of Der Zentaur. “Where’s my wine?”

“Brigitta’s still opening up.”

“Brigitta’s not fucking real.” Thora gets to her feet and hammers on the door. After a brief, tense conversation Santi can’t hear, Thora comes back to the table with a wine and a lager. She raises her glass. “To achieving our dreams,” she says bitterly.

Santi clinks with feeling.

Thora puts her glass down, making a face. “It’s not the same now thatI know the real me is getting all my fluids intravenously.”

Santi takes a sip of his lager. “Still tastes real to me.”

“But it’s not. None of this is. What we just saw is definitive proof.” Thora shakes her head. “I get that it makes sense to put us under for the journey. To make a fake world to keep us entertained. But why not let us remember where we really are?”