“I don’t know!” the Trickster shouted. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you! The past is fluid. The future is fluid. The only thing you can be sure of is now. I don’t know what choice you’re supposed to make!”

“Patience told me she might need me to survive at any cost. Does that mean anything?”

“‘Might’?” spat the Trickster with cynicism. “There’s no certainty in ‘might.’”

“What does she want me to see? What does she want me to know before I can decide?”

His face cleared, and his expression became intent. “Better. Let’s discuss what we can find out. What we still need to know is the name of the man who’s willing to arrange multiple murders to live forever, or at least live indefinitely as an undying one. I think that’s your task.”

Miranda looked unhappy and wearied at his words. “I’m strapped to a hospital bed. I’m broken. How can I do that now if I couldn’t manage it when I was free to go where, when, and how I pleased?”

He tapped a finger to his head. “Haven’t you learned anything from us? It’s all up here, Miranda. No more scouting around, no more searching for clues. It’s time to think. We got what we wanted: the trace of that undying one so we could hunt him down. Hunting humans? That’s a human’s job. Your job. Find him, Miranda. After that you can decide whether or not you’re meant to live or die, but don’t leave this task unfinished.”

“I don’t even have my briefcase anymore,” she sulked. “I left in a hurry, remember?”

“Leave that to me,” he said, “but don’t let that stop you. Like I said, everything you need is already in your head.” He felt a growing uneasiness as he spoke, the discomfort of someone powerful knocking on his made-world. “You must go,” he added hastily. “I’ve kept you too long. Remember what I’ve taught you.”

The small cat faded as Miranda returned naturally to the stronger pull of the reality made by Patience.

“What is it?” he snapped at the invisible presence. “Checking up on me? Don’t you believe I can manage this?”

His mind stretched like rubber, warping every sense and perception to the point of nausea, and then he was on his hands and knees on the ground—splayed out like a spider, in truth—facing Patience in her roofless chamber. She sat comfortably on her heels, considering a small, translucent marble between her fingers.

She offered it to him. “You would not have been able to keep her there much longer. The doctors are reducing the painkillers, and she is becoming more lucid.”

He took his world from her hand and crushed the thin boundary, absorbing its essence easily into his skin. “Chance did it when she was lucid.”