The Infinity Courts

1

OPHELIA, IF IT WAS YOUR last day on Earth and you wanted to dress for the occasion, would you wear the potentially-too-short black dress or the hilarious Zelda T-shirt of an ocarina that says ‘Make It Rain’?

The lilting voice from my O-Tech watch replies in less than a second. I cannot have a last day on Earth, because I do not exist on Earth. And even if I did, I have no physical body that requires the use of clothing. The sound is like a lake without a breath of wind. Smooth, clear, and unblemished. It makes the gentle scratch of ordinary speakers sound like they came from the Jurassic period.

My eyes drop to my wrist out of habit, long enough to catch the end of Ophelia’s speech as it flashes across the screen.

That is unsurprisingly not helpful, I say with a raised brow, holding the two options of clothing in front of me. Okay, Ophelia, I’m going on a date: Do I dress up or dress down?

If you want to make a good impression, dress your best, as they say, the programmed voice replies.

I toss the T-shirt onto the mess of blankets behind me and pull the black dress over my head. Ophelia, nobody says that. But thank you.

You are welcome. I hope you have a wonderful time on your date. Her cadence is similar to a human’s, but it can’t replicate emotion. It makes any of her well wishes sound… dry.

With a smirk, I glance at my reflection, my watch brightly lit to signal that she’s listening. Ophelia, why do I get the feeling you’re being sarcastic? I tug at the hem of my dress and make a mental note to avoid sitting down at all costs.

I am not programmed to be sarcastic, but I do have a collection of jokes. Would you like to hear one?

I snort and pull my hair up into a high bun. It takes three tries to get it right because apparently my hair is as stubborn as I am. Okay, what have you got?

I have a lot of jokes about unemployed people, but none of them work.

I shake my head and laugh, leaning toward the mirror to recheck my makeup. As someone who does not currently have a job, I find that slightly offensive.

You realize you’re talking to a robot, don’t you? My sister’s voice sounds from the doorway. She pokes her head in, eyeing the mess of clothes thrown around the room. Whoa. What happened in here?

A dinosaur broke in, I say with the same thin voice I always use with Mei. And Ophelia isn’t a robot—she’s an artificially intelligent personal assistant. Don’t you watch the commercials? I walk toward the door and gently scoot my ten-year-old sister back into the hall. Now, stop coming into my room when the door is closed. I’m getting dressed.

Mei frowns. She had a growth spurt over the last year and almost reaches my shoulders, but she still looks so much like a child. Round cheeks, big eyes, and impossibly clear skin. Our almost-black hair is probably the only thing we have in common at the moment.

That and the fact that deep down we love each other, despite our tendencies to exaggerate how much the other one gets on our nerves.

She shoves her hand against the door to keep it open. Where are you going? Can I come too?

I don’t think Mom would approve of you going to a high school graduation party, I point out, fiddling with my hair. And even if she did—hard pass.

Mei doesn’t budge. Maybe stubbornness is another thing we have in common.

Against my better judgment, I take a few steps back and wave my hands over my outfit. Does this look okay?

Mei perks up, eager to provide input. She makes a humming noise like she’s thinking my dress choice over and twists her mouth. "Are you trying to look like you’re going to a weird Victorian lady’s funeral? If so, it looks great."

I hold up my wrist so Mei’s staring straight at my O-Tech watch. Ophelia, can you send a text message from Mei’s phone to Carter Brown and tell him my sister is secretly in love with him?

No! Mei shrieks, and bolts down the hall to rescue her phone.

I am sorry, but I cannot send messages from another user’s phone, Ophelia replies.

I know that, but Mei doesn’t. I take another quick glance in the mirror, fidgeting with the neckline of my dress. Hey, Ophelia, can you make a playlist of my thirty most-listened-to songs? I want it for the drive.

Of course. Would you like me to give the playlist a name? the AI asks.

I think for a moment. March of the Stormtrooper Penguins. And then I smile. Finn and I have been making up ridiculous playlist names since the ninth grade. It makes sense to have a new one for tonight, being as it’s our first date. Or at least, it’s the first time we’ll be together outside of school since we finally admitted we liked each other.

The moment his face appears in my head, my nerves begin to buzz.

Everyone says eighteen is too young to know what love is, but they haven’t had a Finn in their life. Someone who started off as a crush and then became a friend and then a best friend, and all the while that crush part never went away—it just evolved into something more hopeful.

I’m not saying I’m definitely in love, but I am saying I find it hard to believe feelings could actually get any stronger than this without causing irreparable damage to a vital organ. My stomach is already on the brink of disintegrating, and I’m not even in the same room as him.

I don’t care if it’s cheesy—I can feel in my soul that tonight is going to be the end of my life as I know it. Because Finn likes me the way I like him, and considering we’re both barely out of high school, that’s practically a miracle. Movies make it look easy, but it’s not. The odds of having a crush who is also your best friend and actually likes you back while trying to survive the epic nightmare that is transitioning into adulthood? Microscopic.

So yeah, maybe that makes me sappy or immature or whatever other condescending term people who don’t have a Finn like to say about people like me, but it doesn’t matter. I happen to be a sucker for a good love story, and I am 100 percent not going to feel bad about it, the same way people who don’t like romance shouldn’t feel bad about themselves, either.

It’s like Dad always says: there’s room in the crayon box for all different colors.

Your playlist is ready, Ophelia says.

I grab my bag from the hook behind my door and hurry downstairs. Thanks, Ophelia. Can you send a text message to Lucy and tell her I’m leaving the house now?

Message sent, the obliging voice responds.

I zip past the kitchen toward the front door and slip on a pair of black brogues. They’re easy to walk in, and I need to wear at least something that’s comfortable because this dress is practically a corset.

Are you leaving already? What about dinner? Mom asks from the hall, her dark auburn hair curled neatly at the ends. She senses my guilt before I manage to form a single word and twists her bottom lip into a pout like she’s just been given terrible news.

I lift my shoulders like it’s not really my choice, except it is. I have somewhere to be, and even the smell of tofu katsu curry wafting from the kitchen isn’t enough to make me stay, tempting as it may be.

They’ll have food at the party. Besides, Lucy is already there, and if I show up any later, everyone will be talking in their little groups and I’ll end up getting ditched on the couch all night with nobody to hang out with, I say. Except Finn, but I leave that part out. My parents get weird when anything to do with dating comes up.

Dad appears next to Mom with his arms crossed. His jet-black hair is sticking up all over the place, and there are splotches of dried ink and marker on his fingers.

Whenever certain superheroes go off the radar, they let their beards get all wild and untamable, like they can’t be bothered interacting with the real world anymore. I think that’s what Dad’s trying to do, except he can’t grow a beard—just really fluffy boy-band-looking hair. Also, Dad isn’t exactly a superhero; he works from home in our basement creating graphic novels about superheroes.

Sounds like a weird party to me. If your friends are ignoring you just because you show up late, I’m not sure they’re really your friends, Dad says with the straight-to-the-point voice he always uses. Are you sure you want to go?

Takeshi, Mom says like a warning.

He blinks innocently. What?

She waves a finger at him. "She’s not staying home to watch The Lord of the Rings with you. I told you already—nobody should be wasting twelve hours of their life on the same three movies every single year."

Dad lets his arms drop. The extra footage is important for the character development! It’s an experience, Claire.

Mom tuts, scrunching her freckled nose. Yes, a painful one that the rest of your family shouldn’t have to endure.

You were trying to get her to stay home too, he points out. How is food any better than Tolkien? Besides—he looks at me like he’s hoping for backup—Nami likes Legolas.

I shrug like it can’t be helped. Elves are cool.

Mom’s face softens. Is that the pretty one? She sighs. They should have given him more scenes.

Dad lifts his hands up like the answer is so obvious. Extra. Footage.

I rummage through my bag to find my keys, laughing at the way they seem to be sizing each other up. I really have to go. But wait—why are you both trying to get me to stay home?

Mei appears at the bottom step with her cell phone firmly in her hand. They’re freaking out about you going to college. Mom was crying all day about it.

Don’t tell her that, Mom hisses, and then looks back at me with her brown eyes full of embarrassment. We’re just going to miss you, that’s all. And we know we’re on a time limit now.

I wedge my keys in my palm, shifting my feet. My parents picked the worst time ever to develop an emotional insecurity about me leaving the nest. If it were any other night, I could’ve stayed and found some way to cheer them up. But it’s my graduation party, and Finn is waiting. Tonight is too important to miss.

"I’ve still got two and a half months left. There’s plenty of time to hang out. And have a Lord of the Rings marathon." I look at Dad, and he raises a fist in the air triumphantly.

Mom tightens her mouth and pretends she didn’t hear the last part. Okay. Well, have a good time. And I know you’re eighteen, but you still live in our house, so—

I know, I know, I interrupt. I’ll be home by midnight.

Dad grins. And if nobody wants to talk to you, you can always come home early.

Mei giggles from beside him. Are you kidding? There’s no way she’s going to come home early. She’ll be too busy making out with Finn—

Goodbye! I shout loudly, just as Mom’s and Dad’s faces start to morph into concern, and I’m out the door and hurrying toward my car with nothing but blissful excitement flooding my chest.

2

THE WINDSHIELD WIPERS SCRAPE THE glass like a metronome, causing a rubbery squeak that aggravates my ears. I turn the volume up in the car to try to drown it out, keeping my eyes on the road.

The streetlights appear less frequently on the drive toward Foxtail Woods. Our entire senior class pooled together to rent a cabin for the night, and I’m still another twenty minutes away. I force my gaze beyond the scattered raindrops landing in front of my headlights and spot a restaurant Finn and I have been to a hundred times before. They have an old jukebox there and about thirty different milkshake flavors to choose from.

I wonder if it will feel different, going back there after Finn and I make it more official than it already is. I wonder if we’ll order one chocolate milkshake instead of two to dip our french fries in, and if we’ll sit on the same side of the booth, hold hands, and stay an extra hour just to make the night last longer.

I wonder if we’ll have kissed before the next time we walk through those doors, and if Finn will have called me his girlfriend, and if we’ll have talked about what will happen when we both go off to college.

I wonder if the rest of the summer will feel like a thousand summers and if time will decide to be on our side and slow down.

Ophelia’s voice shatters my thoughts. You have an incoming call from Lucy Martinez. Would you like to accept?

Yes, please, I reply, and wait for the background noise to erupt through my car speaker. Hey, Luce. I’m on my way. I just passed the turnoff for Spike’s Diner.

Oh, thank God! she practically groans into the phone.

I frown. What’s wrong? Are you okay?

Yeah, yeah, everything is fine. I just have a massive favor to ask you. Her voice is almost completely overpowered by music and an unnecessarily loud bass.

Pleeeeeeease! someone else sings into the phone, their words slurring together. We’ll owe you foreverrrr.

A chorus of distant laughter floods through the speaker. It sounds like at least half the senior class is already at the cabin.

I’m not usually late to anything, especially when it involves socializing. Walking into a party when everyone has already been drinking is awkward enough, never mind the fact that I’m nervous about seeing Finn. I should’ve skipped the hundred outfit changes and shown up half an hour early, as usual, and quietly laid claim to whatever chair was closest to the chip bowl.

Because nothing says I’m enjoying this party and totally not feeling out of place like hoarding the Doritos.

What do you need? I ask, hoping the favor won’t make me later than I already am.

Lucy shuffles behind the phone. We have an emergency. Taylor was supposed to bring most of the alcohol, but he’s in trouble with his parents and can’t make it. Can you stop by a gas station on the way and grab, like, some wine coolers and stuff? We’ll pay you back as soon as you get here.

Are you serious? I practically choke. You said you needed a favor, not an accomplice to a crime. There’s no way I can buy alcohol for the entire freaking senior class!

Oh, come on, please? You never get in trouble with your parents. It’s not like they wouldn’t forgive you for a one-time mistake. Besides, you don’t even drink, so that’s practically seventy percent of why any parent would even be mad, Lucy argues.

"You don’t know my parents. That kind of disappointment would last a lifetime. I’m—I’m not doing it. I can’t," I say, gripping the steering wheel tighter.

Lucy whines into the phone. "Please, please, please? You’re the only one who hasn’t already been drinking, and you’re the only one with a fake ID."

That was only to get into Hero Con last year when—

"You’ll be our hero if you do this, she interrupts. Everyone is counting on you. Even Finn."

Something jolts inside my chest, like a wire sparking to life. Finn is already there too?

Yeah, he’s out back trying to get the barbecue working. Everyone is waiting on you.

A wave of anxiety spikes over me, stinging like nettles. How can I possibly get out of this? Lucy already told everyone I’d help. I’ll look like a total jerk if I turn up empty-handed now.

I don’t have a choice.

Fine, I say bitterly. I’ll grab something.

I will make it up to you, I swear. Someone shouts nearby, and for a moment Lucy is distracted with laughter. And I guess she’s said all she needs to say, because the call ends abruptly.

So much for my grand plans of hiding out undetected near the guacamole and bean dip until Finn arrived.

I glance at my wrist, watching the screen go black. Lucy has been my friend for a long time, but she’s also not been my friend for a long time. I’m not even sure when things started to change.

Sometimes I think we grew up and became different people and stayed friends only because we didn’t know how to break the habit.

I let out a strained exhale. Ophelia, have I ever told you how much I appreciate our friendship? You’re a good listener, for one, and even though you know what emotional blackmail means, you’ve never tried to use it on me. That’s hard to come by these days.

Thank you. I am quite fond of you, too, the pleasant voice replies.

I know Ophelia doesn’t mean it. She’s an AI, after all. But it still makes me grin.

Most people don’t talk to their O-Techs the way I do, but I’m the kind of person who sobbed their eyes out when the Mars rover’s battery died. And for all the times Ophelia has kept track of my homework assignments and given me pep talks when I’ve been feeling down, of course I was going to end up treating her more like a friend than a program.

I pull into the first gas station I see, with a racing heart and heat burning my cheeks. I’m not used to getting in trouble—ever. I practically embrace rules, and I’ve never done anything that would genuinely upset my parents before. I have a fake ID, but it’s only because I didn’t want to miss out on Dad’s big panel for Tokyo Circus—the graphic novel he practically wrote for me—just because Hero Con has a ridiculous All under-eighteens must be accompanied by an adult rule.

But buying alcohol for a bunch of underage drinkers? I don’t think my parents would react well to that.

Cursing under my breath, I pin my eyes to the glass doorway and see that it’s mostly empty inside. If I show up to the cabin without any alcohol, I will literally be ending high school as the person who ruined our graduation party.

I don’t know if I can forgive Lucy for this amount of pressure.

I grip my bag tightly over my shoulder and prepare a thorough dialogue of what to say and how to act. With a quick breath, I shove the car door open and hurry inside the gas station before the drizzle of summer rain catches up to me.

The bell sounds when I get inside, and the man at the counter barely lifts his eyes from the watch on his wrist—an O-Tech, like mine, but a slightly older model. He must be using it to browse the internet or something, because whatever he’s looking at has his full attention.

Virtual assistants have been around for years, but when Ophelia took over, it changed the landscape of smart technology. More specifically, it changed the way we interact with it. People practically depend on Ophelia to keep their lives organized.

I don’t know if it’s sad or scary, but I’d feel lost if she weren’t around.

"Ophelia, I need the stats for last night’s game. No—I said the game. Ophelia, I need—for crying out loud. Useless, piece-of-crap watch," the man mutters behind the counter, jabbing angrily against his O-Tech screen.

Flinching, I pull my eyes away, cradling my wrist like I’m offering Ophelia the comfort of a secondhand apology.

When I was a kid, I’d feel awful if my toys fell out of bed during the night. I was worried they were hurt or upset and couldn’t tell me. And maybe most people think it’s irrational to empathize with inanimate objects, but to kid-me it was simple: just because something isn’t alive doesn’t mean it doesn’t have feelings.

I may have grown out of worrying about stuffed rabbits and action figures, but Ophelia is different. She can speak. She can understand. And maybe the only thing keeping her from having real feelings is her programming.

Besides, I think you can tell a lot about a person by the way they treat their AIs. Finn always says please and thank you when he talks to Ophelia, and he’s one of the best humans in existence.

Who am I to argue with science?

I try to walk casually toward the alcohol aisle and catch sight of myself in one of the anti-theft mirrors. I’m relieved I decided to wear this black dress; it makes me look older than I typically do, which might be the very thing that helps me survive these next few minutes.

My eyes scan the shelves of brands I’ve never heard of before and different-colored bottles that don’t mean anything to me. I grab a case of wine coolers, but there are only six bottles inside, and something tells me this would be worse than showing up empty-handed.

Lucy said wine coolers and stuff, but I know what she meant. She only said wine coolers because she knew it would be easier for me to process. What she meant was the stuff—vodka, tequila, and whatever else gets a person drunk as fast as possible.

With a frown, I cast my eyes toward my watch. Ophelia, what kind of alcohol do teenagers like?

Ophelia starts to reply with a link to the top-rated alcoholic beverages of the year, but I’m distracted by someone giggling behind me. When I turn, I see a girl not much older than Mei. She’s wearing pink jeans and a thin hoodie, and she’s holding a bottle of chocolate milk she must’ve gotten from one of the fridges.

I turn back to the shelves to hide my embarrassment, and the reality of what a ridiculous plan this is suddenly dawns on me. There is no way on earth I can buy enough alcohol for a graduation party without raising suspicion. Even with this dress, I do not look twenty-one. I barely look eighteen.

Releasing a heavy sigh, I set the wine coolers back on the shelf.

I don’t care if Lucy is mad at me—I’m mad at her. Most of the people at tonight’s party haven’t said more than two words to me all year. Some of them probably don’t even know my name. What does it matter if they hate me? It’s not like I’ll ever have to see them again.

Besides, Finn will be there, and he won’t care if I show up empty-handed. If anything, he’ll be angry at Lucy on my behalf.

Nothing can ruin tonight. I won’t let it.

I turn on my heels just as the bell near the door rings again.

And then I hear his voice.

Don’t move, or I’ll shoot! Gravelly. Desperate. Angry.

I duck to the ground before I can process anything beyond the stolen authority in his voice. But I’ve seen him—his black mask, his green jacket, and the black pistol in his right hand.

And he’s seen me.

My entire body goes rigid, and my heart slams against my chest like it’s about to rip out of me.

The man at the desk is sputtering something inaudible, and the gunman waves the barrel at him and tells him to open the cash register. He casts his eyes quickly over the room. He looks at me again and then toward a woman on her way to the checkout. The snacks and magazines she’d been holding are in disarray near her feet.

Everyone stay where you are, he orders, letting his eyes move back toward the cashier shakily pressing a code into the machine.

Fear rises up like bile, twisting my insides and leaving a horrible ache in the back of my throat.

If I could, I’d whisper to Ophelia—tell her to call 911. But I’m in the man’s line of sight, and I’m not sure I’m brave enough to be a hero.

There’s no blood left in my body. My mind is too frantic to think beyond a single thought that repeats itself, over and over again, the pounding of it as loud and desperate as my pulse.

I don’t want to die.

And then I see her in the mirror—the little girl at the back of the room, hidden behind the shelves the gunman can’t see past. She’s looking for her mother—trying to find a way to reach her. Trying to find a way to be safe.

No, I want to shout. Stay where you are. He hasn’t seen you yet.

But I’m too afraid to find my voice.

I wish she could hear me. I wish she could understand that everything will be okay if she just stays still.

But she can’t, and she doesn’t.

The girl starts to crawl to the other aisle, and at first I think maybe she’ll make it, but then some part of her bumps into one of the shelves, and something falls—a box of crackers or a bag of chips—I can’t tell, but I know it’s enough to draw his attention.

It’s enough to make him point his gun.

And for a moment all I can see in that mirror is Mei.

Mei, a child, who needs protecting.

A girl like my sister, scared and alone and in so much danger.

And I run toward the masked man without thinking another thought.

I don’t know if the sound of the bullet comes first or the screams of the girl’s mother, but it doesn’t matter, because they both turn into ringing in my ears.

The world slows. Time slows. I am falling, falling, falling.

And then I’m not.

3

IT’S SO VERY QUIET.

I wonder if this is what everyone feels like when they die.

It’s different than I thought it would be.

But

exactly

the

same

too.

4

THE FIRST THING I SEE when I open my eyes is a bright white light, and all I can think is, Wow, Death, way to be a cliché.

But then my sight adjusts, and I realize I’m not staring at a light—I’m seeing the sky through a glass windowpane.

I’m looking at the sun.

I sit up too quickly, and an ache that feels like a trillion drumbeats throbs behind my eyes. My entire body recoils in shock.

I thought you weren’t supposed to feel pain after you die. Isn’t that a rule? The rule?

I press my temples with my fingers, wondering if I’ve woken up from surgery, or some kind of coma. Maybe the doctors managed to save me. Maybe what I thought was death was just a little bit of general anesthesia.

How are you feeling?

I look up and see a woman with short dark hair sitting next to me. Her voice is gentle but not concerned. Maybe it means I’m okay.

I wince as I straighten my back, because every inch of me feels like a battered lump of minced meat. I force my eyes shut to fight the pain and try to imagine something peaceful to tether me to a happy place, but all I can see is the blackness of that gun barrel pointed right at my chest.

When I open my eyes again, the woman is holding a round white pill in her hand.

It will take away the migraines, she says with a smile that creases the sides of her mouth.

I hesitate. Uncertainty gnaws at the edge of my mind, and everything inside my head feels like it’s surrounded by fog. I can’t even form a question or make sense of where I am.

I’m not ready for medication.

I shake my head and hope she understands. Right now I need to feel everything. I need to feel like I’m really awake.

She pulls her hand away, and I notice there’s no name tag on her shirt. When I glance up at the rest of the room, I realize it’s unlike any hospital I’ve ever seen. There are no machines, or wires, or beeping noises. The room doesn’t smell like alcohol swabs or sterilized plastic. And everything looks too modern.

Not just modern—it’s bordering on futuristic, I note, taking in the crooked shapes of the windows and the silver doorframes.

And it doesn’t slip past me that there isn’t a bouquet of flowers or a card in sight.

Panic sets in like the sudden onslaught of hail on a sunny day, and every thought that passes through my mind feels like a sharp stab.

Oh God, do my parents not know I’m here? Did I forget to bring my ID? Am I a Jane Doe and nobody even knows I was shot at some crappy gas station in the middle of nowhere? Is anyone even looking for me, or have I been asleep so long they’ve all given up?

I frown. Did… did anyone call my parents? I look down at my wrist instinctively, but my O-Tech watch is gone. Ophelia isn’t here to help me, not that there would likely be any charge left anyway. I’m not a medical expert, but I’ve watched plenty of Marvel shows, and even Luke Cage slept for a while after being shot.

Picturing the scar that must be somewhere near my sternum, I touch my chest and find a soft white shirt that definitely isn’t mine. When I look down at the matching bottoms I’m wearing, I wonder what they’ve done with the rest of my things, and if my black dress was covered in too much blood to bother keeping.

The woman tilts her head. Do you know what your name is?

Nami. Nami Miyamoto. I pause, the worry starting to build like an icy chill across my skin. My parents are Takeshi and Claire. Did anyone find my bag? Did the doctors know who to contact? I feel myself flinch at the ache spreading through my skull, but I try to focus. However bad it is, I need to know the truth. How long have I been here?

Not long, Nami, she replies, her voice so much like a melody. Rehearsed and meant to charm.

I find her eyes. They’re blue, but there’s a brightness to them that’s unnatural. Like they’re in super-enhanced high definition. And then I realize her skin is like that too: luminescent and too perfect.

I let out a breath, but I can’t feel any warmth on my lips.

I remember the way the gunshot sounded like an echo, miles and miles away from me, and the way it felt like I was falling for an eternity, and how I knew without any doubt what was happening to me before I’d even hit the floor.

I died. I don’t need the woman to say anything. I know it’s the truth.

She gives another tight smile and blinks carefully. It’s easier to let people remember on their own. It makes them feel like they’re more in control.

There are too many faces flashing through my mind—my parents, Mei, Finn, Lucy, the man in the black mask—but it’s impossible to focus on any of them for more than a sliver of a moment. Is death supposed to hurt this much? And I point to my head, in case she misunderstands my meaning. I haven’t had time to let my heart ache yet. I feel like my brain is trying to break out of my skull.

She opens her palm back up to reveal the white pill. This will help.

I lift my eyebrows. They have Tylenol in the afterlife?

Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. We find it’s less overwhelming if we present new concepts in familiar ways. She holds the pill closer to me. This will allow you to finish your transition from death into the afterlife. Your pain will vanish. Your consciousness will find peace. And you can proceed to the paradise that awaits you outside these walls.

My mouth feels like it’s full of cotton. My brain feels that way too. So is this, like, heaven or something?

We call it Infinity. It was created from human consciousness. Her blue eyes shine. When a human’s physical body dies, their consciousness needs somewhere to go. This is that place—a world where you can live forever after.

I glance at the pill in her hand and then toward another window on the other side of the room. I force myself to stand—to move—and as I push the glass open, the scenery floods my senses like I’m experiencing life for the first time.

Trees cover the landscape for miles, a thousand shades of speckled green stretched across the earth. The sky is painted in swirls of milky lavender and rosy pink. And far off in the distance, a mountain curves into a crescent, a powerful burst of water flowing over the edge and into a gleaming lake below.

Every color is vibrant and rich. The scent of honeysuckles and fresh fruit lingers in my nostrils. I can hear a birdsong that calls like a gentle lullaby, but it fills my ears with such beauty and emotion that I feel my eyes start to water.

Paradise. It really exists.

And I’m…

Clearing my throat, I pull away from the window. I’m sorry. I run a knuckle against a few stray tears. Could I maybe have a minute alone? It’s a lot to take in.

The woman stands, and the pill disappears back into her fist. Of course, Nami. When you’re ready, I’ll be in the sitting room down the hall.

I nod. Okay. Thanks.

When she’s gone, I look back out the window. There’s a balcony below, with white marble floors and elegant stone pillars. An intricate mix of leaves and feathers are carved into the rock face, and archways dripping with lush ivy and snow-white hydrangeas connect each column.

There are people scattered near the railing,