While the fear should have been all-consuming, Miguel and I had already decided our real lives were on the line. Having it confirmed by an expert didn’t feel awesome, but it did allow us to calm down relatively quickly. More importantly, it meant that the insane conversation with Nia was overall an inspiring one. This was previously a game, which meant certain familiar mechanics did exist, even if the world they existed in had lost its balance.

First and foremost, there was a camp we needed to get to by nightfall, so we left the cottage and rejoined the road, weak ass weapons drawn. Fortunately, not only were there no more enemies, but with the sun creeping toward the horizon, we were thrilled to see our path quickly turn from grass to gravel to stone. Within a few minutes, we began passing the shells of barns, shacks, and gardens, all singed by fire and eroded by time.

As these structures became denser, we finally arrived at a the most promising sign of a potential base camp – a sign: “Walden’s Edge.”

Just beyond was an abandoned market, stalls in a circle a hundred yards in diameter, their roofs collapsed but former functions apparent: the vestiges of a baker’s oven, broken bottles from an alchemist, scraps of fabric from a seamstress, and a dozen other items that said trade once bustled here.

In the middle was a makeshift firepit, complete with a spit to roast game much larger than ours. Just next to it sat a well, a little battered but with bucket still attached to a rope. Logs-turned-stools surrounded the two, as well as a basin for washing the weary faces that had clearly arrived here as their first stop in this world.

This. This was camp. Food, water, and rest.

And so the game begins.

Falling into our old routines, Miguel quickly scanned the outer structures for enemies, on two legs or four or eight. All was clear.

I began gathering the kindling that was kindly scattered around the firepit and market, in a non-pattern that looked realistic but purposeful. Eventually, I separated everything into piles by size, knowing some pieces would start the fire while others would roast meat or make bows. Despite the fact that in real life I struggled to find the light switch at an Air BNB, I could instantly and easily strategize and optimize the detritus of crumbling villages or lost civilizations.

Miguel, without prompting, gathered scraps of fabric and began wrapping the sturdier branches, making the torches we knew would somehow burn without fuel or effort. Torches were game tool #1, particularly with darkness setting in.

I found table legs, crumbling shutters, and long-dead logs that would sustain our fire through the night, while Miguel collected rocks that would easily and kindly spark our twigs. Boy Scouts looked hard. Starting roaring fires in video games was as simple as could be.

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The familiarity and activity were comforting, putting me at ease, even when the first murmurs of wildlife began to creep toward us as the sun touched the hills. That was normal, and normal was welcome.

We sparked our kindling, added our firewood, lit our torches and began setting up a ring of fire to keep the proverbial (or literal) wolves at bay.

There were perfect holes in the market’s stonework that held our torches and covered the eight compass points that always represented opportunities and threats. In this case, we could be sure we would survive the night, because all video game animals – real or mythical – were afraid of fire. The light would be our shield and sustain us until morning, when the beasts of the night would return to their hidden shelters and await another dusk.

With the fire roaring, the crackles drowning out the growls and howls, I opened my satchel to retrieve our morsels of meat. The size of baseballs, they were easy to carry, easy to cook, and plenty of food. Miguel and I each skewered a piece onto pre-sorted cooking sticks, and we set about cooking them marshmallow style.

As the juice dripped onto sizzling logs – a nice programming touch – I could smell the aroma of perfectly cooking meat.

“I’m starving,” I finally said, breaking the long but pleasant silence.

“Me too,” Miguel replied, “except that we’re not.”

“How so?” I asked.

“Well,” Miguel answered, “if ten minutes is ten days, then our ten hours here is…in the real world…thirty seconds.”

I hated math, but this would have broken my brain regardless.

“That’s insane,” I responded – not challenging his calculations, but actually asserting that this was insanity. I hated everything about that statement because it was accepted by one small part of my brain and rejected by every other.

I didn’t like when my brain was more than one person.

My HUD flashed as I had my first panic attack in a while, this one much more like those I had in life as opposed to the terror I had experienced in the game. It was just too much information at once, a lot of it bad, which I knew even though I hadn’t had time to process it yet.

“It’s been thirty seconds?” I confirmed.

“Thirty-four?” he guessed.

“So this whole, ‘just maybe everything is going to be ok’ feeling…” I trailed off.

“That’s probably a little premature,” he said flatly.

“Why can’t you just let me have this?” I asked, approaching anger.

“Sorry,” he said, meaning it. He was just thinking out loud, being logical, being Miguel. There was no intent. He was just stating facts as they came to him.

It made it harder to be mad at him, but not harder to be mad.

“Well, isn’t that a pile of shit,” I said poetically. “That means the building could have fallen immediately after we got into the pods, and we still wouldn’t have hit the ground. We could be plummeting to our deaths as we speak.”

“Jesus, Nate.”

Now he was mad. Apparently, he had only done the math, not considered the consequences.

At least we were both super mad and sad and enjoying our now-cooked meat, which wasn’t meat at all and couldn’t be enjoyed because we were in a goddamn coffin, perhaps crashing toward earth.

“Well, tomorrow, assuming there is one,” he said calmly, “I’m going to make a bow and some arrows. I found all the ingredients. This place is crafting central.”

“Then I’m going to shoot you in the ass,” he added. “Prick.”