Jeff stands at the fork, staring down two paths, neither clear. The tunnel to the left is mirrored glass, a spiral of recursion, every turn reflecting back on itself. To the right, a howling dark, broken at intervals by flash and thunder. There is a third option. He doesn’t consider it.

Jeff balances on the Saturn, arms outstretched. Like surfing, really, only faster. He glances back, considering the timing — and jumps. Hangs in the air. One. Second. Lands on the approaching Mustang, like stepping off an escalator. Hands up as they fly under the overpass. He knows he can’t reach it.

Jeff spins, foot connecting with the box, scattering contents — swings the gun around, four shots — each bullet shatters a taco. Tortilla remains and customers hit the concrete. An employee, behind — fist up, smashes the taco from his hand without looking. Holsters his gun, backflips, and exits. Just because he can.

Jeff leaps, catching the rail with perfect timing. Swings up, onto the rear of the train, pulling clear just as it hits the tunnel. Flashes of white light whip across his face; the echoing howl fills his ears. He adjust his lapels before entering. Makes for the dining car.

Jeff surrenders to the music. Soaring strings carry him up and over a sea of percussive hits. Below, the younger brass sister ventures too close to the shoreline. A timpani seizes her by the neck, plunging her into the beats, drowning her. A key change covers the muffled screams.

Jeff sifts sand with his toes, waiting. Waves crash in anticipation. The rumble begins: spires first, then outer walls, brickwork breaking through the shore. Rising to full height, settling into the predawn light. The gate beckons; he descends into the sandcastle.

Jeff slips between the folds of the sunlight. He catches himself, the sudden shift from grass to pavement always jarring. A mile or so, perhaps two? It was getting easier. He ambles down the sidewalk, admiring the storefronts, the leisurely foot traffic. Steps across the street, over the county, and through the wall at the train station.

Jeff dives, two stories, straight down. Pulls into a parallel, skimming over the field, the tallest grass brushing his outstretched arms. Then up, gaining speed, spiraling into a cumulonimbus. He checks his watch, marking the time as his feet find the golden platform. Just under twenty minutes. A personal best.

Jeff enters the final passkey, engaging the power grid. A shudder, a shimmer, a void appearing over the platform. A shrieking, the wailing, the horrors condensed, made solid. Funneling into the portal, the indefinable, undeniable gap in reality before him. It’s working.