At least, that’s what Jonas tries to convince himself.

Jonas spends the rest of the flight in a stupor enabled by first class’s endless flow of liquor. He downs each drink in equal turns unnerved and enraged. Victor. The man’s self-righteousness and jealousy has metastasized to the point where it extinguished a human life. Jonas vibrates with fury and orders another drink. He’s so consumed with emotion that it never occurs to him to consider how Victor managed to locate Jonas twice, in two different universes.

His stomach drops, but it’s just the plane settling in for its final descent. A flight attendant’s voice, flecked with a German accent, comes across the loudspeaker. “We’re approaching Newark’s Hillary Clinton Airport. In preparation for landing, please return your tray tables and seat backs to their upright and locked positions . . .”

Out the window, the once-familiar skyline of Jonas’s home seems altered, unexpectedly unfamiliar. A new skyline transects the city, buildings of bleeding edge design rising from the older, shorter buildings that surround it. It reminds Jonas of a healed-over scar. The thought brings a chill.

On the ground, the customs officer, a heavyset man in his forties with three-day stubble, studies Jonas’s new passport for an unsettling length of time.

“Is there a problem?” Jonas asks despite his best instincts, hoping the question is inflected with the certainty that there couldn’t possibly be a problem.

“It’s just funny,” the officer says. “But there was a Jonas Cullen who died. A Nobel Prize winner. Read an article about him recently.”

Jonas spreads his hands in a gesture of innocence. “Well, clearly I’m alive, so . . .”

“The thing is,” the officer muses, not taking his eye off Jonas’s laminated passport photo, “you look just like him.” The man reaches for his phone. “Here, lemme show you . . .”

Jonas fights panic as the man googles. “Y’know, I’m actually in a bit of a rush,” he says apologetically, offering a hapless shrug.

The customs officer casts a suspicious eye in Jonas’s direction. The phone glows faintly in the man’s hand. Jonas holds his breath. Fortunately, the officer notices the line of weary travelers snaking behind Jonas and determines that he doesn’t have the time for this either. The sound of Jonas exhaling in relief is covered by the officer pounding his passport with a stamp.

“Anyway, the resemblance is dead on,” the man says, returning the passport.

“I’ll be sure to tell my wife. I bet she’ll get a kick out of it.”

The taxi fights its way through Manhattan. Jonas doubts there is any universe where the city isn’t clogged with traffic, and he considers whether walking might not be faster. The taxi lurches. Every inch is a victory, and Jonas reminds himself it’s not the traffic but his excitement that makes his progress into Midtown seem glacial. He consoles himself with the litany of things he can’t wait for. The feel of Amanda in his arms. The sound of her voice. The scent of her hair. For two years he’s clung to these memories, but they’ve been receding, slowly slipping away.

Even the image of her face has faded, though he has stared for hours at that photograph of her in Central Park, with the diamond ring nestled inside a Frisbee, eclipsed by the more indelible, tragic portrait of her hanging upside down, the blood racing up her face and pooling under her eye like a tear.

Jonas slams his eyes closed and violently wills the image away. This will all be over soon.

Five blocks away, he surrenders to his impatience and thrusts a fistful of bills through the plastic divide that separates him from the driver. He spills out onto the street and starts walking. It’s a beautiful spring day. The city smells fresh, like it has thrown off the shackles of winter and is stretching out its limbs. Heat bounces off the sidewalk. Light spills down through chasms of steel and glass.

With two blocks to go, he starts running. He threads through tourists. He hurdles a dog leash. He throws himself through a crosswalk and dodges traffic, ignoring the irate honks the maneuver draws. His sprint attracts confused and curious stares. He avoids a painful collision with a worker pushing a hand truck.

He doesn’t even know what day of the week it is. Amanda might not be home. But logistics and reason and all sense have left him, swallowed by the overwhelming need to get to the home they’d once shared. She’ll be there. He has faith. No, that’s not right. Faith is belief in the absence of knowledge. She’ll be there. He knows this. She’ll be waiting.

And then . . . he’s there. He bounds up the steps of the modest brownstone. The front door is locked. His finger flies over the building directory until he finds CULLEN. He stabs the corresponding button. Over and over. No answer. His impatience melts into desperation.

Then, behind him, labored breaths. The crinkle of paper. The clinking of glass. Jonas spins, expectant, but it’s not Amanda. It’s—What was her name?—Mrs. Gomez, her sixty-eight-year-old body winded from carrying too many groceries. She glances up, peering over the edges of her shopping bags, to see Jonas. Out of habit, he waves.

Her groceries drop.

Produce slaps the sidewalk. A bottle shatters, spraying tomato sauce. Oranges and tomatoes roll away.

Mrs. Gomez stares at Jonas. Slack jawed. Blanching. Her chest is still heaving but no longer from exertion. Her jagged breaths border on hyperventilation.

“Dios mío,” she whispers.

“Mrs. Gomez—”

Jonas chances a step toward her, but she begins to tremble. “Estás muerto. Estás muerto,” she repeats, her lower lip quivering. “No es posible . . .”

Her mouth, already agape, opens farther, and Jonas knows she’s going to let loose a scream. And a scream will cause a commotion. A commotion will draw a crowd. And a crowd will attract police attention. He can’t risk dealing with the police. Not when he’s so close, standing on the literal doorstep.

He surges forward, nearly falling down the stairs, an arm outstretched, palm jutting, fingers splayed. “Please,” he implores, “don’t scream.”

She doesn’t. She just stands before him, ashen, her feet rooted among the vegetables and broken bottles and packaged baked goods.

Jonas plasters on as reassuring an expression as he can conjure. He speaks slowly and calmly. “It’s me, Mrs. Gomez. It’s Jonas. I know that is confusing, but it’s really me. You’re not looking at a ghost. I promise.”

“Mr. Jonas,” she exhales, her shoulders slackening with relief. “They said that you died.” She genuflects urgently.

“It’s a very long story. Suffice it to say, reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.” This is greeted with a blank stare. Jonas stoops to begin collecting the wayward groceries. “Here. Let me help you with these. I’m sorry if I frightened you.” He sorts items into the shopping bags. Salvageable items in one. Shards of broken glass in the other. “Do you know if Amanda’s home?”

Mrs. Gomez just shakes her head, apparently struggling to regain the power of speech.

Jonas is placing a head of cabbage and a container of instant coffee into the “salvageable” bag when he spots Amanda amid the bustle of Riverside Drive. She’s on the opposite side of the street, obscured behind a curtain of commuters and cars, but it’s her.

Instantly abandoning the groceries, he springs to his feet and throws himself into traffic. Time slows and the world shrinks to a seventy-square-foot patch of asphalt covered with Jonas and protesting traffic. Tires squeal. Brakes whine. Car horns bleat in protest. A taxi driver unleashes a swarm of epithets. A bike messenger extends his middle finger as he whips past Jonas, close enough to blow his hair back.

Then, he sees her.

She doesn’t look surprised. If he didn’t know any better, he would say she had been expecting him. And why not? Five years earlier, he promised an alternate version of her that he would find her. If the multiverse is replete with points in time that are universal—fated—then this Amanda’s Jonas must also have vowed to find her in any lifetime. It makes sense to Jonas that she would hold him to that oath.

They collide in the middle of the street and throw their arms around each other, holding on for dear life. Neither speaks. There will be time enough for words later. There will be questions and answers and more questions. They’ll talk through the night and into the morning. She’ll thank him for finding her. He’ll thank her for waiting. They’ll plan the rest of their lives.

When he finally takes her head in his hands and finds her lips with his, their kiss is desperate. Hungry. Jonas feels slickness on her face and sees that she’s crying. Tears of joy and relief cascade down her cheeks. He moves to wipe one away, and it’s only when she does the same that he notices that he’s crying too.

And he goes pale. Jonas’s connection to Amanda shatters. His whole body goes cold.

Macon is standing on the sidewalk.

“What’s wrong?” Amanda asks plaintively.

Jonas shakes his head. How can he explain? He peeks over Amanda’s shoulder again and sees that Macon’s still visible behind her. The man’s remorseless stare drills into Jonas, nothing in his eyes but cold professionalism.

Careful not to alarm Amanda, Jonas takes her hand. “C’mon,” he says, “let’s get out of the middle of the street.” As they make their way back toward the brownstone, Jonas maneuvers himself slightly behind Amanda, placing his body between her and Macon.

“What’s wrong?” she asks again.

“Nothing.” He doesn’t have the presence of mind to come up with a more convincing lie. As they step back up onto the sidewalk, the thought of getting inside, taking refuge in their home, is all-consuming. He’ll call the police. The customs officer mentioned that he’s a Nobel laureate here. A minor celebrity. He should be able to get protection for them both. All he needs to do is get them inside . . .

But Mrs. Gomez is intercepting them now, her arms again full with her bags. Tears are falling down her face, her groceries bouncing in her arms with her excitement, as she turns toward Amanda. “Es un milagro, Mrs. Amanda,” she exclaims. “Un milagro.”