“Awesome, right?” the dealer asked.
“Awesome,” Jonas agreed. “Can you help me? I’m looking for Amanda Monroe.”
“This is her,” the dealer said, gesturing to the painting Jonas had been admiring.
“And they’re stunning,” Jonas answered truthfully. “But I’m looking for Amanda the, y’know, person.”
“She’s in today,” the dealer responded. “Do you want to talk with her about purchasing one of her paintings? Not that you should feel like you have to limit yourself to just one.”
Jonas shrugged off the joke and reached into his messenger bag, a slab of leather he’d had since his undergraduate days, and pulled from it a Frisbee he’d bought at Walgreens for eleven dollars and fifty-one cents, plus tax. “Just give her this,” he remarked with a smirk.
The dealer took the Frisbee with an air of confusion and trepidation, disappearing into the rear of the gallery. As Jonas waited, he returned his attention to Amanda’s paintings. He studied the images, taking in every brushstroke. He had never considered himself a connoisseur of art, far from it, but for some reason, these works spoke to him. The skill was self-evident. Amanda had managed to capture vistas that appeared as real as photos yet as ephemeral as dreams.
“Okay,” came a voice behind him. “How?”
He turned. Amanda stood in front of him, her hip slightly cocked, daring him to impress her. She wore a pastel sundress and leather boots that rose past her calves. Her eyes danced, less surprised than amused.
Jonas offered up a modest shrug. “Your tattoo,” he said. “The skin around it is a little red,” he observed, “so I assumed it must be new. I did some googling and got a list of tattoo parlors.” Her eyes blazed back at him intently. “I called and asked if they had a recent customer—female, of course—who got an Ouroboros tattooed on her inner right wrist.”
Amanda stared back at him in disbelief. “There have to be . . . there have to be over fifty tattoo shops in Manhattan,” she exhaled.
“Seventy-three, actually. And an additional nineteen in the outer boroughs.”
Jonas stared back at her with a mixture of defiance and pride. He watched her expression change, revealing an interest he hadn’t detected earlier. Like she was seeing him for the first time. The look on her face was the same one Jonas had seen staring back at him in the mirror since he’d met her. The look of someone utterly smitten.
He eyed her with a hint of satisfaction. “Will you give me your number now?”
NOW
Jonas shoots up and is rewarded with a throbbing in his skull. Settling back down, he realizes he’s lying on a bed. He inspects his surroundings, expecting to see his hotel room in NH Genève Aéroport. But the room is painted white. No wallpaper. No mass-produced paintings of the Swiss countryside on the walls. The floor is covered with linoleum instead of industrial carpet the color of vomit. A thin white sheet covers him instead of the oddly patterned quilt he expects. A tube snakes into his arm, trailing back toward what he assumes is an IV stand. The room is antiseptic in both smell and decor.
He’s in a hospital.
A new worry strikes him like lightning. He throws off the sheet to find his hand. It’s there. The ring. It’s still there. He exhales his relief.
Relaxing back into the bed, he takes a quick inventory of his circumstances. He’s alive. He’s in an alternate, parallel reality. Another universe. And he’s remained in it for as long as he’s been unconscious. The odds of all this are almost too infinitesimal to contemplate. He has become the first person to traverse the multiverse, and he managed not to die in the process.
Jonas is still contemplating the enormity of this when the doctor enters. He appears to be in his late sixties, has a kind face, and wears a white lab coat over olive green medical scrubs. A stethoscope is draped over his neck.
“Bonjour, vous êtes un homme très chanceux,” he says.
Jonas notices the name embroidered on the man’s lab coat: GUYER. “Où suis-je?” Jonas asks.
“Covance Hospital,” comes the answer.
“Suis-je toujours en France?”
The doctor shakes his head. “Non, vous êtes en Suisse.”
Jonas nods his understanding. He’s back in Switzerland. An ambulance must have responded to his arrival and taken him to the closest hospital, even though it was in an entirely different country.
“Nous sommes l’hôpital le plus grand,” Guyer continues, “proche de l’endroit où vous avez été trouvé.”
“Parlez-vous anglais?” Jonas’s head is throbbing too aggressively to be constantly translating.
“Of course,” Guyer answers. “Are you American? You speak French with an American accent.”
Jonas entertains a buoyant thought. In his home reality, Jonas was a kind of celebrity, the first person to prove the existence of parallel worlds. In addition to the Nobel Committee, Jonas captured the attention of social media and talk show hosts. His notoriety had spread to Europe, so if this doctor doesn’t recognize him, it’s reasonable to hope that Jonas has no counterpart in this universe. At least, not one who developed a Many Worlds Proof. No Nobel Prize, no speech at the Aula Magna. His limousine never slipped the bonds of earth and came crashing down like Icarus.
If an Amanda resides in this universe, it’s likely that she’s still alive. Jonas’s final prayer—his last request ever, he vows—is that she is. Hope brightens once again. He sits up, eager to escape the bed. The doctor watches, concerned, as Jonas rips the IV from his arm and tries to vault to his feet. But then, without warning, pain grips his body, reminding him why he’s in a hospital in the first place.
“Yeah, I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” Guyer deadpans.
“I need to get out of here.”
“Apparently. But I don’t think that’s wise. And evidently, neither does your body. You’ve been out for two days, and you’ve suffered a severe concussion. You should rest.”
“I need to leave. I need to find someone.”
Dr. Guyer just shakes his head. “I’ve called for a psychiatric consult.”
“I don’t blame you, but—”
“It’s just unusual,” Guyer interrupts, “to find a man atop a crushed automobile. No wallet. No form of identification. My colleagues suggest you’re a skydiver, but I’ve never seen a skydiver without a parachute.” He gauges Jonas with a stare. “I would assume a suicide attempt, but there were no buildings tall enough in the area to serve that purpose. So if you were trying to commit suicide, I regret to inform you that you’re not particularly good at it.”
“I wasn’t trying to kill myself.” Jonas tries to stand again, but an ice pick stabs at him from behind his eyes.
“The psychologist I’ve reached out to is a friend of mine. She majored in physics for a time before going into medicine. I thought she’d find your tattoo of interest.” Guyer’s chin bobs in the direction of the formulae on Jonas’s arm.
