“I’ve always said you have a lovely voice,” Jonas told her in mock protest. “I never debated that.”

With her free hand, Amanda carved an elongated C shape in the air like an orchestra conductor, and the class stopped singing just in time for the next verse. Seventy-five faces lasered in on Jonas, each one daring him.

Jonas sighed his surrender. “And could make me be blue,” he began to say instead of sing. But then the mood began to take hold of him. If his aversion to singing was steeped in embarrassment, well, Amanda had conspired to remove that element from the equation, hadn’t she? “And even be glad.” Music began to lace through his speech, his words buoyed by the melody. “Just to be sad . . . thinking of you.” His stare found hers, and he felt an energy exchange of another kind. “Some others I’ve seen might never be mean . . .”

And then he let go, allowing his voice to soar, as he sang-yelled, “Might never be cross or try to be boss, but they wouldn’t do!”

The class exploded in applause. As the song continued, Jonas surged past rows of seats to reach Amanda on the stairs. As Sinatra crooned about no one else giving him a thrill, Jonas took Amanda in his arms.

“I was never alive,” he whispered in her ear. His voice cracked, and he fought off a swell of emotion, surprised by the tidal wave of sadness hitting him, driven by the realization that every minute he had spent without her was dim in comparison. Falling in love with Amanda, and Amanda’s falling in love with him, was the equivalent of Dorothy’s journey from Kansas to Oz, from black and white to Technicolor. “I was never alive until I met you.”

Her lips found his. She dropped the speaker to embrace him fully. The undergraduates applauded and hollered as if they were at an actual concert. Sinatra played on.

NOW

At the top of the stairs, Jonas pounds against another steel door. This one is locked from the other side. He unloads his grief and fury in a futile assault on it until an MTA employee finally frees him from his confinement. Jonas tells the woman he is homeless, a claim his weathered expression and dirty, bruised face conspire to support. He tells her a story about stumbling off a platform and making his way to a maintenance door, and she buys it. No doubt it helps that the only thing people want out of an encounter with the downtrodden is for it to be as short as possible.

Now Jonas wanders another universe’s Manhattan. He doesn’t notice the various architectural differences. He doesn’t hear the machine-gun patter of various dialects, none of which are spoken in his home universe. He doesn’t register the chill that penetrates the thin layer of his all-cotton attire after the warm spring day, in another Manhattan, when Amanda had just been shot. The sky is slate gray. The air carries the sharp smell of cold, of smoldering charcoal.

He has no destination. He is hungry but has no desire to eat. He could find an American Express office and repeat the sad story of having been robbed, but he knows the claim is unlikely to withstand scrutiny in his home country. And that’s assuming Jonas Cullen even exists in this universe.

Night is falling, and with it, the temperature. He knows he can’t roam aimlessly forever, so he implores his mind to make a decision, to figure out someplace to go, but no thought will gain traction. His brain is an engine that refuses to turn over.

Stars try to poke through the gray curtain of sky overhead. The city’s lights begin their nightly illumination against the gloaming. As beautiful as it is, it feels like Manhattan’s way of telling him that time is running out.

The next thing he knows, he’s standing on Riverside Drive, staring up at the brownstone he once called home, several universes ago. He drops to a knee. The sidewalk is identical to the one where Victor took Amanda’s life but for the absence of her blood seeping onto the concrete. He feels the now-familiar tide of emotion welling up inside him. How long will he continue to feel like this? Will it ever stop?

He swallows hard and impels himself not to cry. Forces himself to his feet. One step at a time, he tells himself. That’s the way you’ll get through this. Just one step at a time.

He marches up the steps, consults the building directory, and finds the name he’s searching for: CULLEN, J. He stabs the call button. No reply. He presses the button again. Nothing. Maybe his doppelgänger is out. Perhaps having dinner. Perhaps halfway across the world at some conference. Who knows how much he would travel as a bachelor?

But then the question—what if he’s not single?—skulks into his thoughts. What if this universe’s Jonas found someone who wasn’t Amanda? The idea is an anathema, almost sacrilegious.

“Dr. Cullen’s not home,” says a voice from the foot of the stairs in a thick Guatemalan accent. Jonas turns to see Arturo, Mrs. Gomez’s husband. He’s heavyset, his breathing labored. “Hasn’t been for a few days.” He eyes Jonas carefully. “You look like him,” he observes. “Are you related to Dr. Cullen?”

Jonas is struck by the irony of the question. “Jonas is my brother,” he lies.

“I didn’t even know Dr. Cullen had a brother.”

“Our family situation is complicated like you wouldn’t believe,” Jonas replies, his tone bone dry.

Mr. Gomez offers up the sage nod of someone well traveled in complex family situations.

Jonas decides to take a chance. “Is Armando still the super?” he asks. “I’d like to get into my apart—” He pauses just in time. “My brother’s apartment.”

Mr. Gomez strokes his salt-and-pepper goatee, his brow furrowed in contemplation. “I’ve lived here twenty-six years. I don’t remember a super named Armando. But Mr. Frank would probably be able to help you . . .”

Seconds later, Jonas is padding down the hall with Frank, the superintendent. The man is in his fifties and gaunt to the point of skeletal. He shuffles slightly off his left leg. His voice is a pit bull’s growl, but a missing incisor lends some words an incongruous whistle.

“Kinda glad you dropped by,” Frank says as he snaps the mother of all key rings from his belt. “I haven’t seen your brother for a couple of days and need to talk to him about the smell.”

“Smell?”

Frank selects a key from the menagerie and unlocks the apartment door. The stench that emerges is an assault. Pungent and fruity. A cantaloupe left out in the sun to fester.

“Been getting complaints from the other tenants,” Frank grouses as he leads Jonas inside.

The layout of the apartment is the same as the one he had shared with Amanda. Some of the furniture and art is familiar. In the mess, Jonas detects a woman’s touch, buried beneath a thick layer of recent bachelorhood. The thought brings a chill. Perhaps this reality’s Jonas lost his Amanda as well.

“They’re not happy. The tenants,” Frank is saying.

Jonas scans the space. “Maybe a rat died in one of the walls,” he posits.

Frank stiffens, wounded by the accusation. “My building,” he bites, “don’t got a rodent problem.”

Jonas holds up an apologetic hand. No offense. “I’ll take a look around. I’m sure I can address it.”

“Where’s your brother, anyway?”

“Hmm?” Jonas is distracted by the strangely familiar surroundings.

“Somebody said he might be out of town.”

Jonas deadpans, “I guess that depends on your definition.”

After the superintendent leaves, Jonas decides he’ll wait a few hours to see if his counterpart returns. If he does, it will be the strangest reunion in history.

With nothing else to do, Jonas drifts through the apartment. The place is at once both familiar and foreign. It’s the home he remembers, but a stranger lives here now. Books are scattered everywhere, covering almost every horizontal surface like mold. Furniture sits askance. A vase lies on its side with a dried bouquet spilling out of it. The apartment appears as though it was tossed by police hunting for evidence.

In the living room stands a shelving unit with framed photographs. Some are turned toward the wall. Some lie face down on the shelves. With a tentative hand, he reaches for one of the frames and rights it. Seeing the photo, he pulls it close. A gasp escapes his lips. The picture is of him and Amanda. A beach wedding. The sky behind them is aflame with the setting sun, lurid oranges and reds and yellows. The rapture on Amanda’s face—on both their faces—is the stuff of songs and poems.

Hope is a double-edged sword. As sustaining as it can be, it has equal potential to be unimaginably cruel. It’s this shadow of hope that slides into Jonas’s thoughts like a knife.

What if Amanda is alive in this universe?

What if Thibault was wrong?

Jonas’s heart swells and sprints. His mind constructs scenarios faster than he can cast them out. Amanda is alive. On vacation with his counterpart in this universe. They’re together and happy and know nothing of the loss that has plagued him for two long years. The apartment’s disorder was caused by a burglar who took advantage of their absence.

Still clutching the photo, he selects another, as if it might hold confirmation. Amanda in Central Park. The diamond ring glistering in the sun, taped inside a Frisbee. Hope continues to sing its siren song.

He returns the wedding photo to the shelf but holds on to the frame of Amanda in Central Park. He takes a deep breath and is instantly reminded of the apartment’s reek. The nauseatingly piquant odor stirs him from his reverie. He considers the jumbled mess and abandoned decor. The reason that the apartment seems so familiar is because his own was in the same state. He’d stopped cleaning. He’d allowed clutter to fester. He’d banished pictures of happier times from his sight.

On the shelves in front of him, the down-turned and about-faced photo frames taunt him. They now banish hope, telling him he was a fool for even entertaining it. The truth is right in front of him: Thibault wasn’t wrong. Amanda is gone from this universe.

And Jonas is just a trespasser in the home of a man who lost her too.