“Why don’t you just experience those stories in virtual reality like the other kids?” my father would ask. He worried I’d fall behind the times technologically. Which I did. But I also cultivated a love of books and, with it, a love of learning.

By the time I finish explaining why I’m a bibliophile, most students scrunch their noses and ask, “What is that smell?” At which point I expose them to the delights of holding old books: the feel when you take one off the shelf, the aroma when you open it, the hint of mustiness. There’s nothing quite like it.

This particular Wednesday I walked down the deserted third floor of McMinnus Hall to my office and started my morning routine. I grabbed a cup of coffee, sat at my desk, took a bite into a toasted cranberry bagel, and pulled up my Grid interface.

“Good morning, Alistair.”

Alistair appeared in one of the two chairs across the desk. “Good morning, Creighton. How did you sleep?”

“Well, thank you. Access CulturePulse, please.”

Alistair frowned. “You still have seven dissertations to review before the end of the term. I can access the current one for you.”

I sighed. Dissertation reviews. The bane of my profession. Having neural implants that enhanced reading speed and comprehension by a factor of eight didn’t make five hundred pages of “National Stereotyping in Virtual Reality Programming and Its Effects on Preadolescent Cross-Cultural Relationships” any more enticing.

I did what I always do when faced with an unpleasant task.

“CulturePulse first, Alistair.”

A hundred electronic images appeared in the air above my desk—the cultural items that received the most hits on the Grid in the previous twenty-four hours.

“Number one, please.”

The image on the far left moved to the chair next to Alistair. It was an attractive young woman with short brown hair, dressed in a blue sundress and sandals. Her name was Jade, from Auburn, Michigan. She’d had a dream in which Jesus appeared to her.

The second image appeared, a young man dressed in a beige T-shirt and jeans. He’d had the same dream. I scanned the remaining images. Twenty-two of the ninety-eight were the identical story.

I picked up my coffee cup and leaned back in my chair. How did all these people have the same dream? And why are they all from North America?

An audio-only tap interrupted my thoughts. City of Champaign Police Department. This can’t be good news.

“This is Creighton Daniels.”

“Mr. Daniels—is it ‘mister’ or ‘doctor’?” The voice was low, the speech slow.

“Either is fine. Is anything the matter?”

“Mr. Daniels, the Grid lists you as the primary contact for your father, Eli Daniels.”

I sat up straight in my chair. “That’s correct. Is he all right?”

There was a pause. “I’m sorry to have to tell you. Your father has committed suicide.”