“I will find it. Time, death—these are only illusions. Our atoms, the architecture of the soul, live on. I’m sure of it.” He holds up the weird toy. “Somewhere in those eleven dimensions we cannot yet see, lie the answers to the greatest questions of all—why are we here? Where do we come from? Where do we go next? Is there a God, and if so, is He unconcerned or just really, really, really busy?”

There’s a blip, and the video jumps to some footage of people playing soccer on a field near wind turbines. Click. Quick cut to the same guy with his arm around the smiling, freckle-faced woman from the photo on his desk. She presses her lips to his.

“Ah,” he laughs. “There’s eternity—in a kiss!”

The video cuts out for a second, and when it comes back, it’s the same man, but he’s older now, his long hair gone mostly to silver, his eyes wearier. The Copenhagen Interpretation song still plays. He holds up a big, pinkish-white feather.

“‘Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul.’ Emily Dickinson. Why must we die when everything within us yearns to live? Do our atoms not dream of more?” His hand closes around something that looks like a ticket or key card. “Tonight, I embark for other worlds. Searching for proof. For hope. For a reason to go on. Or a reason to end …”

That’s it. There’s nothing more. I try to play it again, and all I get is the bit that plays at the end of every ConstaToons cartoon: a picture of a twinkling galaxy and suddenly, the roadrunner pokes his head right through space, puncturing a hole in it. He holds up a sign that says MEEP-MEEP. THAT’S IT FOR NOW, KIDS.

The next thing I know, a siren’s blasting in my ears.

“Cameron!” someone shouts, competing against the brutal electronic scream that won’t stop. “Cameron!”

With a gasp, I wake, drenched in sweat.

“Cameron! We’ll be late!” Mom. Yelling. Downstairs.

The alarm clock’s still shrieking. Digital numbers assault me with their red blinking: 7:55 a.m. I’m in my bed, still dressed in yesterday’s clothes.

“Be right there!” I punish the alarm clock with a hard whap. I feel like shit. My clean clothes are in a heap on the floor. When I reach for them, every muscle aches. Definitely a school nurse day.

Downstairs, the house whirrs with busy household noises, all that to-ing and fro-ing people seem to love so much. Mom’s more frazzled than usual. She’s wearing one earring and searching for the other. “Cameron, we have to go, honey! Grab a breakfast bar.”

“Not hungry,” I say, taking half of Jenna’s bagel from her plate.

Jenna snatches it back. “Mom, could you please remind your son that he’s not to have any interaction with me?”

Mom throws up her hands. “Could we not do this today? I have a very important meeting with the Dean.”

“He started it.” Jenna pouts.

The kitchen smells like smoke, and for a minute, I panic, remembering my pot-induced episode from last night. “Mom, you left the toaster on. It’s burning.”

“No I didn’t. Where on earth is that earring?”

“Mom-dude. I can smell it overheating. It’s making me nauseated.”

Jenna holds up her bagel for inspection. “Hello! Not toasted, okay?”

“Ha! Made you talk!” I’d gloat some more but even that exchange hurt my brain.

“You guys, please. Jenna, could you help me find my earring?”

The stench of burning plastic is getting stronger. I know Mom has used the toaster and forgotten to unplug it. If it overheats, Dad will have a cow.

“Fine, I’ll unplug it.”

A low, pressurized hiss escapes the toaster. Tendrils of smoke seep out around the sides. There’s a flicker of orange that makes me jump back. Before I can pull the plug free, the flicker morphs. Long, curved fingernails of fire inch out from behind the smoking toaster and rake deep black scars into the wall there.

“Mom …” My voice cracks.

The toaster bursts into flames, shooting a stream of fire all the way up to the ceiling. Mom and Jenna yelp, but I can’t stop looking. The flames have eyes—hard black diamonds in a face of blue-orange heat, and they’re staring right at me.

“Get the fire extinguisher!” Mom shouts.

They’re not real. They’re not real. They’renotrealnotreal-notreal. It’s another dream, Cam. Just wake up. But I can’t. In my ears is the hiss and pop of flame coming closer. My knees buckle. I’m on the floor, shaking. Above me, the fire giants laugh, and I feel it in my body like a virus I can’t eject.