SEVEN PATRICK ENTERS THE PRIVATE ACCESS tunnel, his fingers clenched so tightly around the wheel of his cobalt-blue sports car, they’re turning white. When traffic slows, he begins driving on the shoulder to make better time. He hasn’t said a word since we left my house, keeping his eyes focused on the road. I can’t say I blame him. When you find out that everything about your reality is just an illusion, it’s hard not to completely shut down. “Are you all right?” Obviously, a stupid question, but despite everything that’s happened between us, I’m worried about him. Patrick presses his foot down on the gas, picking up speed. I glance out my window as the fluorescent lights from the tunnel become a blur, flashing by. “Yeah, I’m okay,” he says, downshifting the car. “Are you sure?” “What? Don’t you believe me?” I shrug. “Well, it’s not like you’ve been honest with me lately.” The car jerks to the left as Patrick swerves to avoid a slick patch of Florapetro residue that’s collected on the roadway.
