I stand at my cell door, feeling galvanised. I place my palms against the door, cool under my skin. I can feel the engine’s thrum right through me.

I am made of atoms. The door is made of atoms.

We’re the same. No different.

This side of the door. That side.

I close my eyes. I imagine Mother in the room, watching me, sitting crossed-legged, lids half closed, exhaling a plume of blue smoke. I think about Vidhan. I think about the text in the handbook’s appendix:

Flex your muscles and shake them loose. Start with your toes and work your way up your body, all the way to your head. Relax every muscle. Every sinew. Breathe in deeply and exhale. Don’t hold any tension. Relax.

I follow the commands. I breathe. I roll my neck.

I relax. I let everything go.

Focus your mind on your breathing. Think about nothing else. Let yourself sink into relaxation. Feel the approach of sleep, but don’t lose consciousness. Rest at the edge. Hold yourself between wakefulness and slumber.

I empty my mind. I let myself sink. I find I can do it easily, without trouble, as though I’ve known this skill all my life.

Visualise your body. Your torso, your arms, your legs. Flex your muscles. Not physically, but with the mind.

I move my body, clench and unclench my fists, all with my mind. And I begin to vibrate.

You are ready. Do not pause. Do not hesitate.

Go.

—

In a state of complete calm, without hesitation, I slide my arm through the door. Right through. There’s resistance at first, then nothing, up to the shoulder. Now it feels cool. There’s a breeze on the other side. I snatch my arm back.

I breathe. I listen to my thumping heart.

I calm myself again. I don’t think about Vidhan’s body. It’s not him. Not really. I focus on the atoms racing around my body like stars and the atoms in the door. I concentrate on merging them. That’s all. Then I go.

I step through.

Here I am. Beyond. I look back at the door in amazement, and when I put my hand against its impossible firmness, I’m hit by a stunning realisation: I walked through a metal door, as if it was air. It’s not solid after all, it’s a façade—atoms swirling, vibrating, bound by nothing but gravity.

Crablike and silent, I creep through the empty ship. The engine noise now is a comfortable murmur and the interior is plush and roomy, nothing like the metal cell I left behind. I walk along a tunnelled corridor towards a bright light and I feel as if I’m walking into oblivion, towards the light at the end of death.

Maybe this is a death. Death of the old self, birth of the new.