The teppanyaki chef presented a slab of raw olive Sanuki wagyu to Cedar and Ari for their approval. The buttery fat intertwined with tender pink meat, marbled like a precision-cut square of limestone.

Ari smiled and nodded, giving the chef the green light.

“I can’t believe we’re about to eat meat after all the gore we've seen today,” Cedar said, taking a sip of hot sake.

“We’re weird like that.”

“Yeah.”

“We’re not normal people.”

“That’s for sure.”

The warm cerulean glow from the wall-sized aquarium bathed their faces, exuding an auspicious opalescence.

“Why haven’t you told me about this place?” Cedar asked.

“For starters, you wouldn’t want to leave it,” Ari replied. “It would take years just to try out all the treatments, and I don’t want you getting too comfortable. People get stupid and lazy when they’re happy. You wouldn’t want to train, do dungeons, or face your fears—I know you.”

“I’m not happy here, so don’t worry about that happening. Ever.”

As they spoke, the teppanyaki chef delicately arranged thin slices of garlic on the grill, attending to each piece with obsessive precision.

“I miss my parents,” Cedar lamented.

“We’re here to make sure nothing happens to them,” Ari reminded.

Cedar revisited her earlier question. “So, are we players in a video game?”

“The honest answer is, we don’t know. But we’re leaning towards probably?” Ari picked up a shumai with his chopsticks and popped it in his mouth unencumbered..

“Probably? What do you mean, probably? How can you not know?”

“Like I said before, a lot of the questions you have now, you’ll still have after you ascend. That includes the god question. We know we created this universe, but who created the first one? Who started everything? We don’t know.”

“You said the answer wasn’t simple. You promised to explain everything after I completed the dungeon. And I did that.” Cedar glared at him.

Ari glanced around at the other patrons enjoying their dinner. “You see these people?”

“What about them?”

“Do you know the difference between us and them?”

“Are they like Alma?”

Ari nodded. “Yes, they’re like Alma.”

“So, they’re NPCs.” Cedar downed a shot of sake, hoping to quell her existential jitters.

“But what makes them different?” Ari probed.

Cedar thought it over as she looked from person to person. “They’re robots?”

“You’re on the right track, but can you be more specific?”

Cedar studied a couple sitting nearby. A dark-skinned man laughed as his companion, a woman with frizzy hair, clasped her hands in delight.

“I don’t know . . . they have no free will?”

Ari let out an unrestrained belch, half-heartedly covering his mouth with a loose fist. “Um, no. It’s probably better if I just tell you.”

“Ew, Ari,” Cedar said, wrinkling her nose.

“They lack ego.”

“Huh . . . ” Cedar replied, unfazed.

“The biggest difference between us and them is that they don’t have an ego. We do.”

“That’s not much of a difference. They’re better off without one,” Cedar said.

“It’s a huge difference—they’re not self-aware,” Ari countered. “The trick to making a robot self-aware is to program the fear of death into them. But it’s a catch-22. If we do that, AI become dangerous. It gives them a reason to kill.”

“Those dungeon AI tried to kill me. Are they conscious?”

“No, they’re programmed. It’s different. They’re barely considered real AI.”

“The only reason we’re able to evolve is because we’re self-aware, and we can’t become self-aware without the existence of time. As long as time exists, we’ll always have fear—mainly because we don’t want to die. We don’t want to let go. That’s what it means to be human and not a machine. That’s the difference. We’re here to suffer—they’re not.”

“That’s bleak.”

“The real bleak part is not knowing why,” Ari said with a shrug. “We don’t know what it’s all for.”

Cedar’s mind conjured an image of the ominous door, the one only a high-level soul could enter. She didn’t want to bring it up—Ari had gone on a wild tangent last time they talked about the door. Instead, she had a different question lined up.

“What about Jesus? Was he real?”

Ari smiled as he watched the teppanyaki chef still presiding over the garlic’s perfection. “He’s still going at it with that garlic, huh?”

“Ari?”

“Yeah, he was a real guy.”

“How is that even possible?”

Ari sighed and looked up at the floating, luminescent globes overhead. “He connected with his void and discovered the secrets of the universe,” he said, as though Jesus weren’t a big deal. “All of us are technically Jesus. We’re no better or worse than him.”

“What do you mean we’re technically Jesus?”

“That white hole that created everything? We’re still inside of it.”

Cedar didn't understand what he meant by that, but she brushed it off by replying, “Yeah? And?”

“It never disappeared. It’s still there—only now, it’s an inverted black hole, and we’re floating along the rim of its event horizon.”

“Well, that’s crazy.” Cedar tilted her head back, finishing off her sake in one swallow. She crinkled the corners of her eyes before asking, “What does that have to do with Jesus?”

“Everyone is born equal. Our energies converged once we made the big jump into the singularity. Our souls were ripped apart and dissected until nothing was left but blueprints. So yes—Jesus is you. You are Jesus. You’re also our fifth-grade math teacher and those fish in that tank over there.” Ari pointed his chopsticks at the aquarium.

“Everyone has the same potential as Jesus. He, along with many others, made direct contact with their void to find ultimate truth. He tried to share his discovery but ended up being revered as a savior instead. His only intent was to teach what he learned, but his greatest gift to us was choosing martyrdom—to save our souls. He bore our hate and fears with him in death, hoping that one day we’d learn and grow from our mistakes.’

‘Martyrs teach us guilt, and through guilt, we learn compassion. Since evolution is a collective journey, compassion becomes a vital pathway to growth—hence the importance of martyrs.”

Cedar gazed off, her focus blurring. She wondered what might happen if every living being in the universe took part in its creation.

“Did all of us jump into the singularity? Are we all creators?” Cedar asked.

Ari looked her straight in the eye. “Not everyone. But you are.”

Her heart dropped, and an icy pain pierced her chest, sharp as an icepick. “You’re saying I created this universe?”

“Multiple,” Ari said with a nod.

“That’s crazy. I don’t believe you.”

“It doesn’t mean anything, though. You gave up your power when you created this place. You’re at ground zero, building yourself up again. Not only that, but the majority of the population took part in its creation, so don’t think you’re anything special.’

‘The fact that we all come from the same energy, regurgitated over and over again, means we’re equal—technically, one with everything. You, my friend, are nothing special. Hate to break it to ya.”

Cedar’s mind spun. How could she have created the universe without even knowing it?

Ari continued, “What happened with Jesus was more of a case of mass hysteria—or mob mentality. When a lot of people believe in something, anything becomes possible. People create their own reality. They wanted a savior at the time, so they manifested one. That’s how strong their belief was. That’s why belief is so important in Christianity. Jesus understood this because he experienced it firsthand.’

‘It’s a long story about how belief works, but it’s powerful—if not thee most powerful force in existence.”

“This is . . . incredible,” Cedar said, still reeling from the idea that she’d created the universe.

“Belief is incredible,” Ari agreed. “People with strong beliefs are like reality alchemists, warping the world around them. But there’s a difference between faith and belief—they’re opposites, actually. Blind faith? Never a good thing. Belief is better, especially when it’s grounded in proof. That’s a whole other topic.”

“Why’s that?”

“For a lot of reasons. Blind faith can make people stubborn, unwilling to see reality. At its worst, it can make them angry at anyone who doesn’t share their faith. But when you have proof, you don’t need faith—it transforms into belief, and more importantly, trust. Belief has substance. Faith . . . not so much. Faith is tied to desire, and desire repels the things we want. You remember me saying that?”

“Yeah . . . ”

“Faith is for those who can’t let go,” Ari explained. “Rather than using faith as their guiding light, people should learn how to trust. Trust is the alternative to faith. Trust is all about letting go, while faith is what people cling to when they lack proof of something greater than themselves. Faith without substance can lead someone down a dark path, forcing them to fill the void where trust should be. It’s hard to explain the difference between faith and trust without making that emotional connection. Nearly impossible, really, just by me telling you.”

“I get it,” Cedar said absently, nodding as her mind buzzed from her newly acquired god complex.

“Once a person learns trust, proof will follow at some point in their journey. And that proof allows them to forgive others who don’t share their beliefs. They understand not everyone has found the proof they have. But not everyone can trust or let go.’

‘It’s all part of growing up. Unfortunately, most people are still living in make-believe. Faith is literally make-believe—they make themselves believe,” Ari said.

Cedar dismissed his last remark as her thoughts swirled. “So, I’m a god then? For creating the universe?”

“It’s really important that you pay attention. This stuff matters.”

“I know. I am paying attention.”

“It’s a long story about how the universe began,” Ari said with a sigh. “I don’t think this is the right time to get into it. The short answer is no—you are not thee God. Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said?”

“You mentioned this universe is in danger if its creators aren’t realized. What does that mean, exactly?”

Ari nodded, blinking as he processed her question. “The universe will collapse if even one of its creators fails to be born within it. The Fringe has incredible auto-correcting codes for small things, but the whole system crashes if the change is too great.”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

“So, my job is to make sure nothing great happens,” Cedar said, smirking.

“You’re getting it,” Ari replied.

“This is nuts,” Cedar said, shaking her head. “But I don’t understand. Why aren’t we all creators?”

“Because, Cedar, not everyone jumped into the singularity,” he said under his breath, barely moving his lips. “The unrealized universes outnumber the realized ones by a billion to one. Probably more. I don’t know the exact number—it’s crazy high.”

The teppanyaki chef placed their plated masterpieces in front of them: juicy, bite-sized cubes of rare wagyu steak, accompanied by a side of toasted garlic and nothing else.

“Looks delish,” Cedar said, inhaling the savory aroma wafting from her plate. She lifted a squishy, pink block with her chopsticks and planted the whole of it into her mouth.

In that instant, she felt the perfection of the universe as it was—its glorious divinity held inside the orifice of her head. Her tongue linking her to all hallowed intelligence.

“Wow,” Cedar said, her words muffled by the steak. “It’s sweet and savory.”

“It’s my fave,” Ari replied, taking a sip of wine for a cleansing acidic wash after his first bite.

Cedar turned her attention to the chef, now scrubbing the hibachi grill back to its original gleaming state. She marveled at the skill of the NPC, wondering how such a complex entity, capable of creating something so beautiful, could lack a soul.

“So, you’re telling me this chef could become sentient if he were scared to die?”

“That’s right.”

“He could become one of us then? He could have a soul?”

“Unfortunately for him, no,” Ari said, shaking his head. “He doesn’t have a void, there’s no place for him to house a soul.’

‘You and I share the same void—the same soul. But NPCs don’t have access. I can’t fully explain what it’s like for them, but once they become sentient, there’s this . . . emptiness to them. Like they’ve been hollowed out. They’re stuck—eternally—in whatever place they find themselves.”

“Poor NPCs.”

“Don’t be sad for them,” Ari said. “This is a deterministic universe anyway, so right now, everyone is pretty much an NPC.”

“That reminds me—you said we’re pre-programmed to jump into the singularity. Can you explain?”

“It happens in the Nucleus Accumbens—the same part of the brain that releases dopamine. It’s the reward center of the brain.” Ari glanced up at the floating globes overhead. “It’s a long story . . . ”

“I’ve got time.”

“We’re hard-wired to believe in God,” he said. “We don’t know why or how that belief got planted in us, but it’s there. Our free will can override it to some extent, but it’s always present—like a baseline to our ego. And after we die and ascend, that belief is still there, even without the brain’s circuitry influencing us.”

“Why is that?” Cedar asked, mid-chew.

“There are books about it in your era—they call it neurotheology. That’s all well and good on the physical plane, but nobody can explain why it still applies in the spirit realm. We literally don’t have physical bodies anymore. No chemicals, no hormones messing with our heads.”

“Interesting,” Cedar said. “What do you think it means?”

“It means we believe we’ll be rewarded by jumping into the singularity, becoming one with God—or so the theory goes. It’s a universal belief, to evolve and merge with God. But the truth is, we’re just repeating the same cycle over and over again. Most people don’t question it. They obey the impulse, thinking it’ll bring them closer to God. It’s one of the most common answers people glean from the void—that aspiration to evolve and become one with God.”

“Well, that’s bleak,” Cedar said, blinking. “To think we’re programmed like NPCs.”

“Gleaning answers from the void takes on a new perspective when you start questioning where those answers come from and why they’re the same for everyone,” Ari said. “Are we programmed? Or are those answers truth? Is it God speaking to us? We don’t know.”

“What about our soul?” Cedar asked. “Is the void our soul?”

“It appears that way, yes.”

“Simple questions get simple answers, eh?”

“It’s not that simple,” Ari replied. “People have different views on what constitutes a soul. Some believe the soul is an astral body, like ghosts or apparitions.”

“You don’t believe that?”

“I see the astral body more as a spirit than the actual soul. It’s semantics, really, but the soul is something deeper. The soul is ground zero. Consensus is that yes, our personal void is our soul. Spirits are flawed, but our voids are poetry’s perfection. Is that a lengthy enough explanation for you?”

“Yep,” Cedar nodded as she picked up the last remaining cube of wagyu with her chopsticks. “There’s no way this cow could exist in the real world,” she remarked, examining the rich, glossy meat.

“It does, actually.”

Cedar looked at Ari skeptically before popping the cube into her mouth. As she savored the bite, a wave of fatigue washed over her. She put her chopsticks down and let out a yawn loud enough to turn heads.

“I’m going to sleep so good tonight,” Cedar said with a contented sigh.

Remembering she was in a luxurious retreat, she asked, “Do they have rooms here?”

“Of course, they have rooms,” Ari replied.

Cedar made her eyes wide and innocent, looking at Ari with exaggerated pleading.

“Girl, you know the rules,” he said, shaking his head. “I can’t let you get too comfortable.”

Cedar seized Ari’s bicep with both hands, pressing her cheek against it. “Oh, Ari, just this once?” she chided, her tone dripping with mock drama.

Ari rolled his eyes and sipped his wine, determined to ignore the theatrics. “Cedar . . . ” he said through tight lips.

“I hate you.” Cedar huffed, nudging him away and folding her arms.

“Just don’t make a habit of it,” Ari relented, referring to her staying the night.

“Thank you, I love you!” Cedar beamed as she stood up. She noticed her empty plate had been spirited away without her seeing it happen.

“I’m going up front to look at the treatment menu again,” she said. “Can I meet you here tomorrow for breakfast?”

“Yes, but after breakfast, it’s back to the grindstone. Understand?”

“Are we doing a level three tomorrow?”

“I’d like to, yeah. We have to keep the ball rolling.”

Cedar felt antsy as they spoke. The resort’s endless temptations called to her, and she knew time was running out.

“Okay, byeeeee,” Cedar said, rushing out of the restaurant. Once outside, she glanced around eagerly. “Where’s that big, glorious menu of delights?” she wondered aloud.

A bright, translucent screen materialized before her eyes. Cedar leapt back in surprise, her brain struggling to process the glowing interface. Once she realized it wasn’t a threat, a grin spread across her face.

“It is the big glorious menu of delights!”

She scrolled through the options with her finger, as if her life depended on it. Her mouth watered, saliva building faster than she could swallow.

“What is weightlessness?”

She tapped the link, prompting the screen to display its details. What she read made her heart flutter.

She would experience weightlessness in any environment of her choosing. A massive list of backdrops appeared, making her pulse quicken with excitement.

Coral Reef. Himalayas. Jupiter’s Orbit. The Milky Way. The Netherlands. My Hometown. Paris . . .

There were subcategories for fantasy worlds, live paintings, cartoons, movies . . . The possibilities seemed endless.

“Coral Reef,” Cedar decided, clicking the option.

The screen responded with large, bold print accompanied by a cheerful jingle:

You chose Coral Reef Weightlessness!

Cedar laughed, hopping in place with excitement.

Then, a sharp, unpleasant tone rang out—a sound like a wrong answer on a game show. A red notification flashed on the screen:

We’re sorry. We are unable to connect to your interface. Please see an attendant.

The screen vanished, taking her joy with it.

“My interface? But I don’t have an interface. Come back, menu! Please come back,” Cedar said, grasping at the empty air in front of her.

“Please, Miss Wells-san, this way.”

The elegant hostess from earlier appeared, motioning for Cedar to follow.

Cedar nodded, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “It’s good to see you again—oh, I’m sorry, I never caught your name.”

“My name is Nozomi Kagawa. Hajimemashite,” the hostess replied with a deep bow of respect.

“Haj-ee-mi-mas-tee,” Cedar fumbled with the greeting but returned the bow as best as she could.

“Please, this way,” Nozomi said, gesturing for Cedar to follow.

Cedar trailed behind, leaving the steakhouse for a tree-lined path that led to a petite pagoda. Moss and vines draped its exterior, giving it an ancient, serene charm. At the front door, Nozomi opened a control panel and entered a code so fast her hand became a blur.

Ordinarily, this would have spooked Cedar, but after all her training, it didn’t raise a hair.

With the faint sound of a lock unlatching, Nozomi opened the door, bowing her head as she invited Cedar to step inside.

The interior was a trove of gadgets and gizmos. Rows of shelves were crammed with high-tech instruments and tools, some for creating and others for repairing. Similar items of unidentified function dangled from the ceiling like modernist chandeliers. Every inch of the single-room pagoda seemed filled with advanced technology.

Nozomi gestured for Cedar to sit in the solitary black metal armchair in the center of the room.

As Cedar settled in, she couldn’t stop her eyes from wandering over the mysterious equipment. Meanwhile, Nozomi moved purposefully, scanning the shelves and cabinets for the right apparatus.

“You don’t have an interface?” Nozomi asked, her tone curious but devoid of judgment.

“Nope.” Cedar wriggled her sandaled toes and slapped the armrests with her moist palms. She wondered if Nozomi might gift her an interface—maybe that would eliminate her need to ascend entirely.

“We’ve never had anyone here without an interface.”

“There’s a first for everything, right?” Cedar responded with nervous laughter.

“I have a solution,” Nozomi announced, returning with a soft metal wristband. She fastened it around Cedar’s left wrist.

“Wait a moment,” Nozomi instructed.

Cedar examined the wristband, its large square screen lighting up at her touch. It displayed the date and time—not much different from an old smartwatch. It was interesting, but it certainly didn’t look like the advanced interface Ari had described.

Nozomi opened a cabinet drawer, retrieving a sleek black container. She popped the lid and pressed her fingertip to a sticky white dot inside.

“This contains all of our treatments. No need for an interface,” Nozomi said, sticking the white dot onto Cedar’s temple.

“Really? That little thing?”

“Now, try again.” With a graceful wave of her hand, Nozomi conjured the translucent menu once more.

Sitting up, Cedar quickly found and selected her previous choice.

You chose Coral Reef Weightlessness, the screen displayed in bold print, accompanied by the same cheerful jingle as before.

As the menu faded, a vertical, hyaline rectangle appeared, resembling a glass door. It stood so close that Cedar feared she might topple into it if she stood. Tentatively, she reached out, her hand slipping easily through the glass-like mirage and emerging dry.

Beyond the door lay the real marvel: a vibrant coral reef teeming with life, unmarred by the sun’s bleaching. The dazzling fluorescence of the coral created a kaleidoscopic paradise, a panacea-rich habitat for a torrent of fish and other sea creatures.

“Do I go in?” Cedar asked.

Nozomi smiled and gestured at the door in silence.

“Can I breathe in there?”

Nozomi nodded again.

Cedar turned back to the doorway, staring at the shimmering water and its lively inhabitants. She hesitated. Should she notify Ari before taking the plunge into possible danger? Doubts crept in.

What if she really did need an interface? What if she couldn’t breathe in there after all?

“Is there a problem?” Nozomi asked, her kind face showing genuine concern.

“No, not at all. No problem.” Cedar ended her internal debate and tumbled forward, shoulder-first, into the shimmering doorway. Her eyes stayed locked on Nozomi, ready to signal for help if needed, as she prepared for her first underwater breath.

Immediately, Cedar felt the promised weightlessness. Cool water refreshed her warm skin, and though panic threatened to surface, she pushed it aside. Her gaze never wavered from Nozomi’s steady presence as she summoned the courage to inhale.

Just do it, Cedar. Do it now. Why wait? Just do it. Breathe in.

The first breath was harder than anticipated. She hadn’t considered how unnatural it would feel to defy her instincts. Water had never scared her—in fact, she recalled a dream where she was submerged, directionless yet unafraid, breathing underwater as though it were second nature.

It’s just like the dream, Cedar. Breathe. Think of the dream.

Nozomi’s serene expression held steady, her eyes locked on Cedar’s. Time was running out. Cedar debated letting her body override her hesitation and involuntarily take the first breath. But she dismissed the thought—Ari would never approve. Conscious choice is his thing, she reminded herself.

Nozomi mouthed the word: Breathe.

Cedar’s heart raced, her face feeling hot despite the cool water surrounding her. She forced her mind blank, exhaling her fears.

Then, she breathed.

In that instant, relief washed over her. The water had turned to air as she breathed it in. Her panic melted into awe as she opened her mouth to laugh, releasing a cascade of bubbles. Nozomi smiled and waved, sharing in Cedar’s triumph.

A family of clownfish darted past Cedar’s face, encircling her as though welcoming her to their world. Turning with them, she let the door slip out of view and gasped as the reef revealed its full splendor.

“Whoa,” she exclaimed, another air bubble escaping her mouth.

The reef felt like a living dream, as though she’d stepped inside the steakhouse aquarium. Everywhere she looked, vibrant life surrounded her. A family of bright yellow fish wove seamlessly through a school of blue fish. Above, a sea turtle glided gracefully, while below, a small octopus scuttled into the sand.

The sounds of the reef were muffled and soothing, like heavy rainfall or bacon sizzling on a pan. The ambient noise calmed her ears, enhancing the tranquility of the moment.

Cedar, a naturally strong swimmer, explored the reef’s many hidden treasures. She marveled at its thriving ecosystem, but a darker thought surfaced, uninvited: Everything around me is eating.

A second thought followed: This world, no matter how beautiful, is also brutal and unforgiving.

She realized, in a way that felt both profound and simple, that everything depends on everything. The reef’s beauty rested on a delicate balance, where each creature, no matter how small, played a critical role in the survival of the whole.

After a time, Cedar grew weary of the reef’s wonders. Feeling the pull to move on, she began searching for the doorway home.

Two minutes into her search, she glanced at her wristband. The device was sleek and functional, but the underwater environment made voice commands impractical. Frustrated, she shouted for the menu.

Sure enough, the luminous menu materialized before her, scattering nearby fish with its sudden brightness.

The display showcased what she had hoped for: a list of backdrops for Weightlessness. Her heart raced with excitement as she scrolled through the options, barely hesitating before selecting The Milky Way.

As before, a new door appeared before her, its translucent surface shimmering like glass. Cedar barely had time to glimpse the star-strewn void beyond before her curiosity propelled her forward. She drifted through the doorway and found herself floating in space.

The ruckus of the coral reef came to an abrupt halt as Cedar’s ears adjusted to her new environment.

It was a deafening quiet.

She went from sensory overload to complete sensory deprivation in one fell swoop.

The space around her wasn’t speckled with stars as it was back home. Instead, it was spattered with galaxies. The stars she was accustomed to seeing were now mere flecks of light, nestled inside massive swirling galaxies.

Cedar turned to face the largest one—the Milky Way. Its stars and planets, small enough to resemble dust motes, coalesced into the shape of an astronomical pinwheel. It pulsed with color, as if it were alive, a breathing entity suspended in the void.

Her instinct was to get closer. Cedar willed herself toward the spiraling galaxy, but the lack of reference points disoriented her. Not knowing up from down—or if she was moving at all—made her stomach churn. A wave of nausea hit her as her heart raced uncontrollably.

But she couldn’t hear it.

The oppressive silence gnawed at her. Something meant to be awe-inspiring and serene, filled her with dread.

She was utterly alone, with nothing but her thoughts for company. It reminded her of the void—not the void full of infinite potential, but of all-consuming emptiness.

Shaking off the unease, Cedar tried again, willing herself closer to the Milky Way. But no matter how hard she focused, the galaxies around her refused to shift. It was as though space itself conspired to keep her frozen, untethered. The silence amplified her unease, drowning her in the absence of sound, motion, and substance.

There was nowhere for her ego to hide, nothing tangible to anchor her.

Panic gripped her as she began to spin, her body twisting upside-down in the weightless expanse.

She had to get out of there. She felt trapped, claustrophobic—she couldn’t breathe.

“Menu!”

Thankfully, the menu materialized before her, even though no sound escaped her lips. Cedar wasted no time scrolling through the options, desperate for something familiar.

She selected Hometown.

In an instant, the suffocating void dissolved. She entered a bright blue sky, its canvas painted with fluffy white clouds and flocks of birds. The world was alive again.

She glanced down and saw her house—her actual house—nestled a hundred yards beneath her feet.

“I’m flying,” she gasped, her voice finally returning.

She hovered in the air, relishing the sound of life radiating in all directions. Leaves rustled in the wind, dogs barked in the distance, and children’s laughter drifted up from below. It was everything outer space wasn’t.

With a burst of exhilaration, Cedar surged forward, flying down the street at immense speed. She darted past trees, rooftops, and telephone poles, her heart pounding—not with dread, but with pure, unbridled joy.

She had never felt so free.