Danny’s assistant, Alexa — don’t laugh, the joke was old the first time, and anyway, her parents had no idea Amazon was going to turn her name into a household word — has tossed the mail she couldn’t sort into a pile on his desk. She’s gone now too, on her way to Machu Picchu before taking a new job at Google.

There’s a Post-it note on top of the pile. DANNY YOU HAVE TO GET YOUR STUFF! SRSLY! XO A.

He sighs. There’s no sense putting it off any longer.

On his way down to the garage, he peels away the Post-it and looks at the first envelope. Ordinarily that would go right into the shredder, because who uses paper these days? But he sees the familiar return address.

It’s the invitation to his twentieth high school reunion. He laughs out loud.

That would be disturbing enough for normal people — twenty years? No way! I’m not that old! and so forth — but for Danny, it’s like a wormhole has opened under his feet. His stomach feels light, and he drops back in time. He feels the weight of his homebrew plasma emitter in his hand, hears a screaming come across the sky, sees something emerge from the shadows and reach for him again.

Absolutely not. He barely escaped before. Why would he ever go back?

He wonders, for a brief moment, if Carrie will be there. He shoves the thought away. She’s no more eager than he is to revisit the past. None of them are.

His phone bloops at him, dragging him away from his memories. He stuffs the invite into the pocket of his hoodie (he’s adopted the native garb of Silicon Valley in his time here) and sees the alert from his bank. The money is already on its way to his account. Facebook doesn’t waste any time.

He could buy a Gulfstream and fill it with scotch and strippers. He never has to work again. He has no idea what he’s going to do with the rest of his life.

Half of the ground level of the parking garage is taken up by his workshop. It has a big, roll-up bay door at one end, and a smaller, human-sized door at the other. His employees moaned about this frequently, because this meant fewer parking spaces for them, but it was always nonnegotiable. Danny had it written into his contract with the board of SharpTech. He’s always needed a place to think.

Everyone in Silicon Valley likes to talk about starting their company in their garage. Well, this is Danny’s garage.

There’s a numerical keypad by the human-sized door, and he enters the code. Inside, motion sensors blink at his presence. His biometric profile is scanned by the mounted cameras, and the computer database decides he belongs in here. Lights switch on.

A robotic voice crackles from a speaker in the ceiling.