Thora sits down next to him. “Spite?” When he gives her a look, she smiles. “I guess—I make my own meaning. From my life, the world, the people I love.” She brushes his hair back from his forehead. “That’s probably not enough for you, is it? You want Meaning with a capital M. A message written by God in the stars, telling you the way you should go.”

Tears spring to his eyes. He can’t look at her. “You don’t believe that exists.”

He doesn’t know how many thoughts she lets pass unspoken. “I don’t know,” she finally answers. “But if it does exist, I’m okay with not knowing what it says.” She looks at him seriously. “Maybe that’s the only way to survive this. To be okay with not knowing.” She stands, patting her pocket for the keys.

“Where are you going?”

“To find a way to wake us up.”

Santi tries to lift himself. “I’ll come with you.”

“Santi, you can’t stand up for more than five minutes without fainting. Sorry, but you’re not the most useful person to have around right now.” She pauses in the doorway. “I’ll come back.”

A memory, half-imagined: Thora in the life where she helped raise him, disentangling herself from his childish, clutching hands. I always come back, she told him then. This time, she doesn’t promise so much.

He lies on the sofa, Félicette purring under one hand while he slowly slips away. Thora comes and goes, but it seems to Santi that she is there more often than not: sitting with him, helping him to the bathroom, feeding him miracle food scavenged from the void. He watches her bring home a haul of identical bread buns, apples, cans of soup, and marvels at her: a survival expert adapted to the strangest of environments. She has always been stronger than him. Even when she was a seven-year-old child and he was her teacher, full of misapprehensions and doubts: perhaps especially then.

He’s suddenly angry with her. “Why are you wasting time looking after me?” he protests.

Thora looks over her shoulder at him as she opens a can of soup. “Because if you were me and I was you, you wouldn’t leave me to die alone.”

It’s true, but Santi doesn’t care. “This isn’t fair.” He tries to sit up. “It shouldn’t be happening.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Thora says in a calm voice.

He lies back, fuming silently. When she brings him the soup, he sniffs it suspiciously. “What kind is this?”

“The miracle kind. Why, does it smell weird?” Thora pulls the bowl back. “Maybe you shouldn’t eat it.”

He rolls his eyes at her. “What, in case it gives me some kind of incurable disease?”

She glares at him. “Stop trying to be me. It’s not cute.”