UR

time we’re giving you a pass,” the young one said. “But if anything like this ever happens again…” It didn’t finish. It didn’t have to.
    They moved to the door, the hems of their coats making loathsome liquid chuckling sounds. The older one went out, still holding the pink Kindle in its claw-hands. The other paused for a moment to look back at Wesley. “Do you understand how lucky you are?”
    “Yes,” Wesley whispered.
    “Then say thank you.”
    “Thank you.”
    It was gone without another word.
    .
     
    He couldn’t bring himself to sit on the sofa, or in the chair that had seemed—in the days before Ellen—to be his best friend in the world. He lay down on his bed and crossed his arms over his chest in an effort to stop the shudders that were whipping through him. He left the lights on because there was no sense turning them off. He felt sure he would not sleep again for weeks. Perhaps never. He’d begin to drift off, then see those greedy black eyes and hear that voice saying Do you understand how lucky you are ?
    No, sleep was definitely out.
    And with that, consciousness ceased.
    VIII—Ellen
     
    Wesley slept until the music-box tinkle of Pachelbel’s “Canon in D” woke him at nine o’clock the next morning. If there were dreams (of pink Kindles, women in roadhouse parking lots, or low men in yellow coats), he did not remember them. All he knew was that someone was calling his cell, and it might be someone he wanted to talk to very badly.
    He ran into the living room, but the ringing ceased before he could get the phone out of his briefcase. He flipped it open and saw YOU HAVE 1 NEW MESSAGE. He accessed it.
    “Hey, pal,” Don Allman’s voice said. “You better check the morning paper.”
    That was all.
    He no longer subscribed to the Echo , but old Mrs. Ridpath, his downstairs neighbor, did. He took the stairs two at a time, and there it was, sticking out of her mailbox. He reached for it, then hesitated. What if his deep sleep hadn’t been natural? What if he had been anesthetized somehow, so he could be booted into a different Ur, one where the crash had happened after all? What if Don had called to prepare him? Suppose he unfolded the paper and saw the black border that was the newspaper world’s version of funeral crepe?
    “Please,” he whispered, unsure if it was God or that mysterious dark tower he was praying to. “Please let it still be my Ur.”
    He took the paper in a numb hand and unfolded it. The border was there, boxing in the entire front page, but it was blue rather than black.
    Meerkat blue.
    The photo was the biggest he’d ever seen in the Echo ; it took up half of the front page, under a headline reading LADY MEERKATS TAKE BLUEGRASS, AND THE FUTURE LIES AHEAD! The team was clustered on the hardwood of Rupp Arena. Three were hoisting a shiny silver trophy. Another—it was Josie—stood on a stepladder, twirling a net over her head.
    Standing in front of her team, dressed in the prim blue slacks and blue blazer she invariably wore on game days, was Ellen Silverman. She was smiling and holding up a handmade sign that read I LOVE YOU WESLEY .
    Wesley thrust his hands, one still holding the newspaper, over his head and let out a yell that caused a couple of kids on the other side of the street to look around.
    “Wassup?” one of them called.
    “Sports fan!” Wesley called back, then raced back upstairs. He had a call to make.