His own personal shimmerdome, hidden deep in the wilderness, but still close enough to the Maine Corridor to latch on to a signal. Len had understood that Martin and his unlimited resources would hold a tight grip on the fleshbound world. Ambrose could get lucky and escape over and over again, but he would always be a rat in a maze. In Unison, at least he’d be in a position to—what did Len say?—throw himself into the gears.

He sat in the chair. With his eyes closed he began to wonder about Mistletoe, where she was, if she was okay. He thought about how she had pushed him against the side of the subcanopy elevator for insulting her neighborhood.

Deep breath. The damp, earthy smell of the room reminded him of her scented pigtail. How pungent it had been, mashed against his face as he rode behind her on that tiny death-trap scoot! If his mind was going to decay into a nonsensical patchwork of memories and hallucinations, he hoped some of them would be of Mistletoe. He slapped his palms together and shimmered.

His throat tickled, but he couldn’t cough.

He tasted the hot-penny tang of battery acid.

The dim light snuffed out, and he felt himself lift off the chair.

Ecstasy surged through him; his troubles were distant and meaningless. He was home.

He emerged from the cave into the ragged edge of Unison’s ESC bitmapping. Roots twisted and rumbled beneath his feet. An apple orchard sprang up around him. Some of the trees bent and reshaped into unique chairs and tables. Intricate hand-carved patterns emerged in the grain of the wood. He ran his hand along the deep, spiraled carvings in the side of a strange, T-shaped chair. At one end of the top crossbar was a little door with a handle shaped like a perched owl.

His Feed said:

Suburban mailbox, mid-twentieth century.

So it wasn’t a chair at all—it was one of those antique inboxes for paper correspondence. He watched as it lacquered itself, the glossy finish running from top to bottom. It was breathtakingly beautiful. He had always loved furniture, ever since he was a little boy, and never thought it possible for that love to grow. It was simply a fixed part of him, like his hands and feet and heart. But now, for the first time, surrounded by all this beauty, his entire being swelled with—

Wait. Something was wrong. He accessed his Profile.

My name is Adam Trevor.

He relaxed and strolled through the orchard, kicking at the brittle leaves that coated the soft path beneath his feet. Nothing was wrong. He was Adam Trevor, and he was home. But still, something nagged at him, a gnawing anxiety like he had missed a meeting.

Where did he work?

He didn’t. That was impossible. He was fifteen years old. He wanted to be a singer someday, but—