Adam Trevor felt a pleasant tug that started behind his eyes and stretched down into his rib cage, as if someone were carefully massaging his insides. He had been away for too long, doing pointless things he could barely remember.

Adam Trevor is finally home!

The front gate swung open, and he started down the path, taking a moment to close his eyes and breathe the hint of ripe apple borne on the gentle breeze. Beneath his feet, stray data filled the cracks between the stones, fleeting impressions of happy times with good Friends. Eventually, after one minute or several days of walking (it was hard to be sure, and anyway it didn’t matter), Adam Trevor reached an imposing set of beautiful wooden doors. The archway above was capped by a gargoyle perched like a dog on its haunches, with strangely familiar features and a little clump of sandy human hair. Adam took one last look behind him at the elegantly landscaped grounds and watched transfixed as the serpentine data streams snaked over the gently rolling hills. He put his hand against the door and felt the throb of a billion users’ lives. Then he pushed, and the heavy door swung open. He stepped inside.

The tugging behind his face and between his ribs became an unbearable tearing away, like a fist closing around his organs and pulling them out through his skin. He was stunned by the sudden betrayal of the peace and contentment offered by the grounds outside. It was very dark. The pain left his body all at once, like a bandage quickly ripped off a cut. He opened his eyes. It was still dark.

A man’s voice said, “Ambrose. I’m going to turn on the lights.”

He swallowed. My name is Ambrose Truax. He remembered watching Greymatter expand. Someone else had been with him.

“Mistletoe?”

“Afraid not.”

The lights came up gently, a dozen embedded fixtures on a dimmer switch. He was standing in a cozy office lined with mahogany paneling and recessed shelves made of glass. Tiny spotlights shone up from beneath each shelf, illuminating dozens of old-fashioned picture frames. A tall, succulent office plant sat beside a massive oak desk that had been darkly stained and buffed to a mirrored sheen. A neat pile of paper was stacked in one corner of the desk, next to a mug that held an assortment of pens and a pair of scissors. The mug said DO I LOOK LIKE A MORNING PERSON?

Martin Truax sat behind the desk, looking crisp and energetic in his familiar blue suit. He was holding a piece of paper with two hands, like an old-time newscaster. He flashed a brilliant smile at Ambrose, who flinched as the white teeth seemed to sparkle in the air a second longer than the smile.