Their fear manifested as shadows. As monsters. As Beings that erupted out of the mirrors and devoured everything they touched without mercy. The monstrous fears faded after a few minutes, but by then the damage was done. And I learned that the combination of the humans’ vivid imaginations and my own ability to render them was so strong that anything that happened to the humans in the dream also happened to their real bodies.

Dozens died.

I was helpless to stop what I had started. As months passed and my power continued to drain, I was less and less able to resist the gravitational pull of Earth below. My core was the largest and heaviest remaining piece of myself, and if I couldn’t manage to keep it in orbit, then I and all the humans I had tucked away within myself would die. Many of the humans on the planet below, as well.

I kept trying to wake my passengers. As they took precautions against mirrors, I was forced to use less-reflective materials to try to show them the truth of the dream. None of them understood; none of them realized that an exit lay just beyond the monsters. But I began to realize that when a human was exposed to mirrors, to exits, over a long period of time, I could communicate with them a little bit more.

It wasn’t much. Just a nudge—a sensation, a gut feeling. Like someone beyond the mirror was trying to reel them in. It was a meager invitation, but it was the most I could manage.

Outside the dream, the pull of the planet below intensified. I began to burn. To fall.

I shut down more of myself, sacrificed all the systems I could, and pulled up just enough. I bought a few more days.

And then—one of the humans finally saw through the dream. Finally recognized the monsters. Finally took the exit.

And Marty Callahan woke up on a rainbow floor above the world he’d believed dead.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I BREAK CONTACT WITH THE WINDOW. I’M REELING backwards—away from the screen, away from the knowledge that’s sent cracks shuddering through the whole of my reality. Through the whole of what I thought was reality.

I knock over a floor lamp. It hits the ground. The bulb pops and blue light flashes bright, a half-second supernova. I hit the coffee table, knock a book off it, course-correct and keep moving. I don’t stop until I’m pressed up against the wall that divides the kitchen from the living room.

A dream. I’ve been living in a dream for the last year.

“Mirage,” I say, the word barely more than a shaky croak.

Yes? he says immediately. There’s a quality to his voice that tells me he would be hovering and wringing his hands, if he could hover, if he had hands.