74 Overlord of Everything and Nothing

It was hard to pick up the trace of sun-dried raisin in the vodka, but it was there, lingering behind the aftertaste. Handcrafted in small batches, Dash organic vodka was distilled seven times, filtered through coconut shells, and then micro-oxygenated until it was smoother than velvet.

Sitting on his black suede couch, Evan sipped it now, looking past the slit in the floor that housed his retractable flat-screen TV and focusing on the view beyond.

Los Angeles, a constellation of nearly 4 million lights. All of them seemed to be on display tonight. Checkering the neighboring apartments, running up and down the high-rises of Downtown, headlighting the cars Tetris-ing their way through the gridlocked streets below.

And Evan floating twenty-one stories up, observing it all with his glass of vodka, an overlord of everything and nothing.

Alone.

The congestion on the streets looked thicker than usual, and he realized: It was Thanksgiving.

He thought of Anna Rezian, her life back in motion. The RoamZone bulged in his pocket, charged and ready to go. What would next week bring? And the week after? How many more Hector Contrells would he face? How many seedy doorsteps would he darken, steeling himself for whatever atrocities waited inside? How long had he been stuck here inside this fortress-prison, inside this trope, this story? He thought about breaking out of the narrative, about time moving along and — for once — him moving along with it. Unclicking that pause button and stepping into life with all its ordinary wonders and concerns.

You can’t start over.

The drink had lost some of its charm.

All you can do is change direction.

And then Evan was up and walking. Through the door, up the corridor to the elevator, riding down nine floors. He moved briskly to 12B, tapped on the door before he could convince himself not to.

He sensed a shadow at the peephole, and then the door pulled open, a trace of lemongrass presaging Mia’s appearance in the gap. From behind her, soft lighting and the smells of a laden table.

“Evan, it’s—”

“If I stopped it all, would you consider letting me in?”

She stood in the doorway, confused. “I— Wait— What? You’d do that? For me?”

“No,” he said. “For me.”

She blinked at him. Peter leaned forward from his chair onto his elbows, his face poking into view, angled above a still-steaming bowl of mashed potatoes.

“That’s what you’re saying?” she asked. “That you’re willing to stop it all?”

He stared at her, feeling the pull of a thousand buried instincts as they fought their way to the surface. He opened his mouth to reply.

In his pocket the RoamZone vibrated.

Time decelerated, his senses on overdrive. Ahead, a room glowing with warmth, a table set with cheer. Behind, the cool of the dark hallway lifting the hairs on his neck. The phone in his pocket, calling him to duty.

It had taken so much to get him here, to the threshold. He couldn’t bring himself to retreat from the door, to tear himself away.

He dug for the phone, lifted it to his ear, spoke the words. “Do you need my help?”

A draft from the hall blew in, snuffed out the yellow and orange candles on the table. Black smoke spiraled up from the wicks. Mia searched his face, as if looking for something she could no longer find.

Through a staticky connection came a single syllable: “Yes.”

It took a split second for Evan to recognize the voice.

It was Jack’s.

Keeping the phone pressed to his face, Evan dipped his head apologetically and backed away from the light.

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