“Yes.” It’s interesting how many notes of emotion can latch on to a single word. Crixus doesn’t sound happy about his real body. Does he wish it would disappear and he could simply exist here in the Nightmare?

“So how are we both in the same dreamscape? This shouldn’t be possible.” I grope for details that usually come easily to me. Why is this world confusing me so much? What are the rules I know? Something about the dream serum and having to take it at the same time.

Crixus nods toward the holding place. But I’m not done. I take in the bodies. Sleeping. Snoring. I don’t enter, but gesture toward the room.

“Is everyone here a real person?”

“There are no avatars,” Crixus says.

“Not even the Spores?” Those creatures who attacked us are real people? With disembodied swords?

“Not even them.”

“This shouldn’t be possible!” I exclaim. Programming a dreamscape for multiple entrants is complicated. Too many entrants and the whole thing would collapse. How can this place exist—staying stable under the occupancy of possibly thousands of people forced here against their own will?

“This is your future,” Crixus says. “Best get used to the idea.” His hand drops to the hilt of his sword—the same type James, the now-dead Vetter, wore. A gladius. “Get some rest.”

“I’m leaving this place.” I head into the dark room without breaking eye contact. “And it won’t be through that front gate.”

“There’s no leaving, Cain. You’re infected. No matter how many Sleeps you have left, you’ll be back, and you’ll wake up right here, on your dirty, unwashed cot. And I’ll be waiting for you.” He twitches a smile.

I’m not cowed. I’ll show him. He may have turned himself into some cosplay centurion and found a shiny sword, but I’m not giving up on the Real World yet. I won’t surrender.

He slams the door. A lock clicks.

I settle onto the first empty cot my feet hit. He was right. It’s dirty and unwashed, and it smells like ten other sweaty men. Or maybe that’s the room in general, which seems to be snoring from its very stones.

I won’t let this Nightmare beat me, no matter how intricate it is. I will figure out how it works . . .

And then I’ll tear it down.

For the first time, I resurface from the Nightmare with relaxed breathing instead of tight muscles. I’m back in The Fire Swamp. The Real World. Home.

My body rests in . . . awe? Determination? I can’t pinpoint the new feeling, but I know why it’s there . . .

The virus. There’s an entire world inside it.

Now that I’m awake, my thoughts are free of the muddled chains of Nightmare. I can think clearly and pull up all the knowledge and lessons I’ve lived and learned.

News reports have only ever spoken about the endless Tunnel of Death. They never knew about the world beyond the Tunnel. What did Crixus call the dreamscape? Tenebra? Surely someone would have woken back up and said something.

I open my laptop and search the term. All that comes up is that it’s related to the Latin word tenebrae which means “darkness.” Seems appropriate. But no news clips, no blog posts, not even a Tweet about this world in the Nightmare.

But people are there. Erik. James. Crixus. Maybe they don’t wake up anymore. So then what have they done with their bodies?

That’s the darkest part of the virus. Once you’ve managed to survive the first 22 days of being infected, you’re trapped in the virus forever—never to wake—leaving your body at the mercy of whoever’s with you.

Nole and I had each other. I was going to take care of his comatose body for as long as I could. Keep him alive. We were going to either find the cure or “borrow” a LifeSuPod—a Life-Support Pod—until we figured it out.

But now I have no one. Once I’m trapped in the virus, I’ll have at best a few days before my body starves to death. And yet, I’m not afraid, though I probably should be. Call it ignorance or blind hope, but I think I found the missing part to our cure.

All this time Nole and I were trying to figure out how to eradicate the mutation that took over everyone’s mind. But we don’t need to counteract the virus, we need to rewrite it. It’s nothing more than a dark, twisted dreamscape.

Dreamscapes don’t create themselves. Someone made this place. It was programmed.

Which means it can be hacked.

I lurch for my notebook and pen. Laptop would be faster, but I can’t waste the charge. Best to write it out and then upload a photo of my notes. I pull a candle out of the box of dollar-store candles we stocked up on before things got so serious. I light it, then peek out the window. Night. Not even a whisper of dusk.

I don’t know what I expected. It’s already past nine. But since my Sleeps come at 6:00 a.m. I’ll never see the sun again. I haven’t seen it the past couple wake times—not fully. But it’s still a hard fact to swallow.

I pull out my time card and mark my new status, filling in one more hour bubble to indicate the progression of the virus. Only seven more Sleeps.

I stuff the paper back into my pocket as if I can crinkle up the knowledge along with it. Then I take a fresh stick of gum. I’m running low—just a few sticks left. The bright orange sends a sharp zing to my tongue. It’s my favorite brand because it tastes like more than a mouthful of sugar. It has depth.

Nole used to make fun of me. “You like your gum like you like your dreamscapes. Layered and overcomplicated.”

I let my memory of him fuel me. As I write my thoughts, my brain speeds after the ripple effects of what this Nightmare dreamscape could mean, how we could change it. I mean, how I could change it. The Draftsman in me wakes up, passion and studies multiplying in my memory. Instead of always feeling one step behind Nole and his science skills, I finally feel like I could be the person to do this.

The person to bring the world a cure.

I force myself not to rush, despite the clicking secondhand from our battery-operated analog clock growing louder and louder. I think through every ripple effect, every potential outcome. When I need a break, I spend it sketching the coliseum on fire.

It takes hours to finish my notes and reconcile them with Nole’s equations. When I finally think I have something to work with, I pull up Nole’s neglected video channel. The last time I updated it was after Nole’s death. His followers deserved to know.

Now there’s a glimmer of hope, and I can’t keep that from them. From those who are still alive, that is.

I do a quick Live video, sharing how I’ve had a breakthrough for the cure.

“I’m still working on it. I have Nole’s notes and share his blood. It’s not the end yet.” I almost mention that there’s an exit to the Tunnel, but at the last minute I keep that information to myself. The world outside of the Tunnel almost killed me and resulted in my being trapped in the coliseum for gladiator servitude. From this perspective, the Tunnel almost seems safer.

Is that how Nole died? He escaped the Tunnel and the Spores got him? Burned to death from the coliseum flames? Died in the gladiator Arena I’ve yet to see?

I’ve hardly finished filming the Live when comments roll in and several people click the “thumbs up.”

>>I needed this today. Even if it goes nowhere, I needed the glimmer of hope.

>>I’m willing to try anything at this point. Even if it poisons me.

I glance at the clock. 5:00 a.m. Already I’m a mere hour from reentering the Nightmare. Did I really spend all my Awake time working on this already? It feels like I only just woke up.

I move faster, stuffing a cold hard-boiled egg into my mouth. I toss some feed into the chicken coop and gather one more egg. Then I spend the final 30 minutes looking at my notes. Double-checking and pushing my focus to deeper levels than any professor ever achieved.

If I’m going to rewrite the Nightmare dreamscape, I need ImagiSerum. Fresh, unused, unprogrammed ImagiSerum to mix with Nole’s cure. To write my own dreamscape that counteracts the Nightmare.

I don’t need to create a new world. I merely have to create the end of one. The serum needs to tell the brain, The dreamscape is over, time to wake up. Just like when people sit at the ImagiLife parlor and their 60 minutes are over.