Dim had answered the door wearing blue jeans — how retro! — and a yellow T-shirt imprinted with the logo of Anaheim, a popular American TV series; even a European Literature major apparently couldn't help falling under the thrall of American pop culture.

"Hello, Dim," said Theo. He had never hugged his younger brother before, but had an urge to do so now; facing the fact of one's own mortality fostered such feelings. But Dim would doubtless not know what to make of such an embrace; their father, Constantin, was not an affectionate man. Even when the ouzo was flowing more than it should have, he might pinch a waitress's behind but he'd never even tousled the hair of his boys.

"Hey, Theo," said Dimitrios, as if he had seen him just yesterday. He stepped aside to let his brother enter.

The house looked like you'd expect the home of four guys in their early twenties to look — a pig sty, with items of clothing draped over furniture, take-out food boxes piled on the dining-room table, and all sorts of gadgets, including high-end stereo and virtual-reality decks.

It felt good to be speaking Greek again; he'd gotten sick of French and English, the former with its excess verbiage and the latter with its harsh, unpleasant sounds. "How are you doing?" Theo asked. "How's school?"

"How's university, you mean," said Dim.

Theo nodded. He'd always referred to his own post-secondary studies as university, but his brother, pursuing the arts, was just in school. Perhaps the slight had been intended; there were eight years between them, a long time, but still not enough of a buffer to insure the absence of sibling rivalry. "Sorry. How's university?"

"It's okay." He met Theo's eyes. "One of my professors died during the Flashforward, and one of my best friends had to leave to look after his family after his parents were injured."

There was nothing to say. "Sorry," said Theo. "It was unforeseen."

Dim nodded and looked away. "Have you seen Mama and Poppa yet?"

"Not yet. Later."

"It's been hard on them, you know. All their neighbors know you work at CERN — 'my son the scientist,' Poppa used to say. 'My boy, the new Einstein.' " Dimitrios paused. "He doesn't say that anymore. They've had to take a lot of heat from those who lost people."

"Sorry," said Theo again. He looked around the messy room, trying to find anything on to which he could shift the conversation.

"You want a drink?" asked Dimitrios. "Beer? Mineral water?"

"No, thanks."

Dimitrios was quiet for a few moments. He walked into the living room; Theo followed. Dim sat on the couch, pushing some papers and clothes onto the floor to make room. Theo found a chair that was reasonably free of clutter and sat on it.

"You've ruined my life," said Dimitrios, his eyes meeting then avoiding his brother's. "I want you to know that."

Theo felt his heart jump. "How?"

"These — these visions. Dammit, Theo, don't you know how hard it is to face the keyboard each day? Don't you know how easy it is to become discouraged?"

"But you're a terrific writer, Dim. I've read your work. The way you handle the language is beautiful. That piece you did about the summer you spent on Crete — you captured Knossos perfectly."

"It doesn't matter; none of that matters. Don't you see? Twenty-one years hence, I won't be famous. I won't have made it. Twenty-one years hence, I'll be working in a restaurant, serving souvlaki and tzatziki to tourists."

"Maybe it was a dream — maybe you're dreaming in the year 2030."

Dim shook his head. "I found the restaurant; it's over by the Tower of the Winds. I met the manager; he's the same guy who'll be running it twenty-one years from now. He recognized me from his vision and I recognized him from mine."

Theo tried to be gentle. "Many writers don't make their living writing. You know that."

"But how many would go on, year after year, if they didn't think that someday — maybe not today, maybe not next year, but eventually — that they would break out? That they'd make it?"

"I don't know. I've never thought about it."

"It's the dream that makes artists go on. How many struggling actors are giving up today — right now — because their visions proved to them that they'll never make it? How many painters on the streets of Paris threw away their palettes this week because they know that even decades hence they'll never be recognized? How many rock bands, practicing in their parents' garages, have broken up? You've taken away the dream from millions of us. Some people were lucky — they were sleeping in the future. Because they were dreaming then, their real dreams haven't been shattered."

"I — I hadn't thought about it that way."

"Of course you hadn't. You're so obsessed with finding out who killed you that you can't see straight. But I've got news for you, Theo. You're not the only one who's dead in the year 2030. I'm dead, too — a waiter in an overpriced tourist joint! I'm dead, and so, I'm sure, are millions of others. And you killed them: you killed their hopes, their dreams, their futures."

Day Eight: Tuesday, April 28, 2009

Jake and Carly Tompkins could have met at TRIUMF, but they decided not to. Instead, they met at the Chapters superstore in the Vancouver suburb of Burnaby. This one still devoted about half its space to actual pre-printed books that were for sale: guaranteed bestsellers by Stephen King, John Grisham, and Coyote Rolf. But the rest of the facility was taken up by individual display copies of titles that could be printed on demand. It took only fifteen minutes to produce a single copy of any book, either in mass-market paperback or as an octavo hardcover. Large-print editions could be had, as well, and computer-translated editions in any one of twenty-four languages could be produced in only an additional few minutes. And, of course, no title was ever out of stock.

In a brilliant bit of preadaptive evolution, book superstores had been building coffee shops into their facilities for twenty years now — giving people the perfect place to spend some pleasant time while their custom books were printed, Jake got to Chapters early, entered the attached Starbucks, ordered himself a tall decaffeinated Sumatra, and found a seat.

Carly arrived about ten minutes after the appointed time. She was wearing a London Fog trench coat, the sash pulled smartly about her waist; blue slacks; and low heels. Jake rose to greet her. As he approached, he was surprised to see that she wasn't as pretty as he'd remembered.

But it was definitely her. They looked at each other for a moment, he wondering, as he expected she was, how you should greet someone whom you know for a fact you will one day have sex with. They were acquaintances, already; Jake had encountered people he'd known less well at various times and had either bestowed or received a kiss on the cheek — especially, of course, in France. But Carly decided the matter, extending her right hand. He managed a smile and shook it; her grip was firm, and her skin cool to the touch.

A Chapters employee came around to ask Carly what she wanted to drink; Jake remembered when Starbucks used to have only counter service, but of course someone had to deliver your books to you when they were printed. She ordered a grande Ethiopia Sidamo.

Carly opened her purse and reached in to fish out her wallet. Jake let his gaze fall inside her purse. The entire coffee shop was non-smoking of course; all restaurants throughout North America were these days; even in Paris, such rules were coming into effe ct. But he was relieved to see no pack of cigarettes hiding in the purse; he didn't know what he would have done if she'd been a smoker.

"Well," she said.

Jake forced a smile. It was an awkward situation. He knew what she looked like naked. Of course — of course that was twenty years hence. She was about his age now, twenty-two, twenty-three. She'd be in her early forties two decades from now; hardly run down, hardly a hag. And yet—