I turn to face the bartender, a tall man with gray hair and dull eyes. He too is computer-generated.

“What?” I ask, still trying to figure out what is going on.

“A drink, sir, for you, sir?”

“Uh, yeah,” I reply, “sure. Whiskey. Why not?”

The barman scoops ice into a glass and pours a nameless brand of whiskey on top.

“Whiskey, sir,” he says, and places the drink on the bar.

I reach for it, wrap my fingers around the glass, and I don’t feel it. It’s as if there is nothing in my hand at all—in fact, it’s as if I don’t even have hands. And I realize at that moment that I can’t feel anything.

I raise the glass to my lips and try to drink, but I have no mouth and no way of swallowing, I’m just going through the motions, and yet when I put the drink down on the bar, it’s half empty.

“Welcome to Purgatory,” a lady in a flowing green dress says from beside me at the bar.

“Thank you,” I reply uncertainly.

“Don’t you just love this music?” she asks, her voice vacuous as she sways slightly.

“It’s fine, I guess.”

“It really grows on you.”

I’m about to ask exactly what this place is when Molly’s voice calls out, “Luka, over here.”

I look over to where Molly stands. She’s in a cool brown suit, trousers held up with suspenders, her hair tied back, dark glasses on her eyes.

“Molly,” I say, moving toward her, “you look awesome.”

“I know,” she replies, smiling. “Luka, it’s so good to see you.” She hugs me, but I feel nothing, no contact, no sensation of touch at all. “I’m sorry I didn’t say it out there, in the real world, but we had to get back before Happy followed us.”

“Yeah,” I say, “I get it. Hey, are we safe here?”

“Perfectly safe.”

“But you said something, just before you, well, died.”

“Did I?” she asks, genuine confusion on her face. “What did I say?”

I try to remember but I feel hazy. I feel a little like I did when Tyco stuck that Ebb patch on me. I try to focus on the memory; Molly stepped into the chamber, pressed the button, and said … but it won’t come.

“I can’t remember,” I tell her, and laugh, because it seems funny to me. Molly laughs too.

“Well, it probably wasn’t important.”

“Probably not,” I agree, and laugh again. “Hey, what is this place?”

“This is Purgatory.”

“Right, but what—”

I don’t have time to finish my sentence before Malachai comes running across the large dance floor toward me. I register that he’s wearing an open waistcoat with a white shirt beneath, an untied bow tie hanging casually from beneath the collar, before he throws a fist at my face.