“The better question is, why would they? I mean, when you think about it, it’s a little silly.” The insecurity he’d felt in the run-up to their first date rushed back to him in a torrent. “Is this a deal-breaker for you?”

Amanda folded her arms defiantly over her chest and pouted. “I don’t know. I’ve never met anyone who thought singing or dancing was silly.” She pronounced “silly” as if it were two separate words.

“When you think about it,” Jonas said in his defense, “the conveyance of ideas via melodious chanting or rhythmic movement serves no useful biologic, intellectual, or societal function.”

Amanda threw her hair back and gave a dramatic, exasperated roll of her eyes. “God, you’re such a scientist.” But the way she said it seemed more compliment than criticism. “And you’re wrong.”

“I’m not.”

“First, any time you’ve found yourself tapping your foot to a song is evidence that there is an innate connection between the human body and rhythm.” Jonas opened his mouth to protest, but she silenced him with a finger. “Second, dance relieves stress. It conveys ideas. Some cultures—many cultures—tell stories through dance. But most importantly, it’s one of humanity’s ways of making one attractive to those of similar sexual orientation.”

“The relief of stress and the conveyance of ideas don’t relate to any humanistic imperatives, which was the point I was really trying to make.”

“Agree to disagree.”

Jonas tilted his head. Fair enough. “And your theory doesn’t withstand scrutiny because you’re attracted to me despite the fact I don’t sing.”

“Or dance,” she added with feigned disappointment. “Please don’t remind me.” She thought for a moment. “Wait. If you don’t like music, how do you know ‘It Had to Be You’?”

“I never said I didn’t like music. I just don’t sing.”

“Or dance.”

“Or dance,” he repeated. “But Sinatra is inescapable.”

On the karaoke stage, the mutilation of Taylor Swift ended, and the analyst wobbled off. A flat-screen mounted on the wall flashed AMANDA & JONAS. She pointed at the monitor. Last chance . . .

“You don’t have to go up there alone,” Jonas said.

“Apparently I do.”

“I mean, you don’t have to go up at all. We could go to dinner.”

Defiant, she said, “No thank you. I’ve had a sip of a purple drink. I’m ready for a little silly.” Once again, she stretched the word out for mocking effect.

He watched her move toward the stage with a confident, defiant stride. She grabbed the wireless microphone and threw Jonas a wink as the song began to pipe through the speakers. Violins glided in. Amanda brought the microphone to her lips and dove in to what Jonas had to admit was a remarkable rendition of the Sinatra classic.

Why do I do just as you say? Why must I just give you your way?

The crowd roared its approval. A halogen spotlight backlit her, outlining her form as it swayed in sync with the music.

Why do I sigh, why don’t I try to forget?

Throughout the entire song, her eyes never left his. Each note, each lyric, was a new promise not only to share her life with him but also to elevate his. She was daring him to be more than who he was. To live life at a brighter luminance.

It must have been that something lovers call fate . . .

It felt like fate. When they were together, there was no time. No past. No future. There was only now.

NOW

A hand pushes against Jonas’s shoulder, and he awakens with a start. A flight attendant stands over him, the expression on her face partly warmth and partly regret. She speaks to him in English with a thick German accent. “I’m very sorry, sir. But the gentleman in the galley asked me to wake you. He said you’d want me to.”

“Galley?” Confusion pushes through the fog of sleep.

The flight attendant gestures forward toward the first-class galley.

“There must be some mistake,” Jonas says. “I don’t know anyone on this flight.”

“The gentleman told me you might say that,” the attendant responds. “He told me to tell you he’s a friend from work.” Jonas must still look confused, so she adds, “Columbia University?”

Jonas rubs his eyes in the vain hope that doing so will bring clarity. It doesn’t, but . . . maybe there is someone he knows aboard. It’s a small world, after all. In any universe. The thought that he’s deceased in this reality doesn’t occur to him.

“Thank you,” he says, undoes his seat belt, and spills out onto the aisle. His slumber was deep and profound and refuses to relinquish its grip on him. He pads forward to the first-class galley.

It’s impossible for the man he sees in front of him to be on this plane. The world may be small, but it’s not microscopic. This man’s presence cannot be a matter of mere coincidence.

The man standing in front of him is Victor Kovacevic.

Victor leers at Jonas, savoring this reunion. He’s older than he was when Jonas last saw him, aged beyond the mere passage of years. He wears an oily grimace, which advertises that he’s been looking forward to this.

“You probably have a lot of questions,” he says.

Jonas says nothing. He just stands there. The plane canters slightly. Cups and mugs and bottles clink and chime in the galley.

“Let’s start with the most pressing,” Victor says. “No, this isn’t ‘my’ reality any more than it is yours. I’m a fellow traveler, just like you.”

Jonas remains quiet. His mind races, a million thoughts competing for primacy.

“Second question,” Victor continues. “How could I reality-slip with such precision? To know exactly where you’d be? Onto a plane moving at six hundred miles per hour?” He dangles the question like a lure, fishing for a reaction.

And still, Jonas says nothing. It’s all he can do not to scream. Not to beat this man—this cocky, self-righteous, overbearing man—with his fists. A wine bottle in a plastic holster jangles nearby, volunteering to be used as a potential weapon. Jonas envisions the bottle breaking off at the neck, cabernet splattering everywhere as he shatters it against Victor’s head.

A flight attendant enters to retrieve the bottle, startling Jonas. “Are you all right, sir?” she asks.

“Fine. Thank you.” His tongue is sandpaper. The words come out a whisper.

“Can I get you gentlemen anything?”

“No, thank you,” Victor answers. “We’re just stretching our legs.” He sweeps a hand in Jonas’s direction. “Getting reacquainted.”

The flight attendant exits with the wine. Victor watches her go. “Where were we? Oh, that’s right,” he says, feigning recollection. “We were discussing how it was possible that I could reality-slip myself here.”

Pleased with himself, he raises a wrist. On it is a band of steel. A single ivory light pulses beneath its surface. Jonas recognizes the design. It’s a tether bracelet.

“You stole my work,” Victor explains. “I improved on yours.”

Epiphany strikes Jonas with the force of a slap. In the space of a heartbeat, everything is clear.