The man stood in front of the hospital entrance, gun raised toward the sky.

  He was old—sixty-something, maybe more—with dark skin and grey hair cropped short. His clothes were simple: a faded blue shirt, worn slacks, the kind of outfit someone might wear to a casual doctor's appointment. His posture was straight despite his age, shoulders squared, feet planted. Military or law enforcement, Maggie guessed. The stance was too practiced to be anything else.

  Around him, dogs cowered. The golden retriever had pressed himself flat against the ground. The mutt was hiding behind a bench. Even the border collie had retreated several steps, ears pinned back.

  The man noticed their fear before he noticed anything else.

  "Oh, hell." He lowered the gun immediately, face crumpling with guilt. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—it just went off, I didn't—"

  He was so focused on the dogs that he didn't see Maggie and Mark approaching until they were ten feet away.

  Mark spoke first. "Were they being too much?"

  The man spun, gun half-raising on instinct before he caught himself. His eyes went wide.

  "Holy shit." The words came out breathless. "Never thought I'd be glad to see humans again."

  Maggie studied him. Up close, she could see the lines on his face, the slight tremor in his hands that had nothing to do with fear. He looked tired. Not exhausted—just worn down by something that sleep couldn't fix.

  "What happened?" Mark asked, nodding at the gun. "With that."

  The man looked down at the weapon in his hand like he'd forgotten it was there. "I... right. Sorry. Let me start over." He tucked the gun into his waistband—a practiced motion, automatic—and extended his hand. "Martin. Martin Cole."

  Mark shook it. "Mark."

  "The dogs were..." Martin trailed off, glancing at the still-cowering animals. "They were a lot. Friendly, but a lot. All of them talking at once, circling me, asking questions I couldn't answer. I tried to get them to calm down, line up, give me some space to think." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I reached for my hip out of habit—thirty-two years on the force, you know? And suddenly there was a gun in my hand. Wasn't there before. Just... appeared. I didn't even think. Fired before I realized what I was holding."

  Mark let out a small laugh. "At least you didn't manifest a monster."

  "Manifest?" Martin's brow furrowed. "What do you mean, manifest?"

  "Long story." Mark glanced around at the empty street, the grey buildings, the dogs slowly uncurling from their hiding spots. "We should talk somewhere else. Easier to explain sitting down."

  "Talk about what? Where are we?" Martin's voice carried the edge of someone trying very hard to stay calm. "Is this some kind of... dog heaven? Am I dead?"

  "Not heaven," Maggie said. "And not dead. I'm Maggie, by the way."

  Martin looked between them—a young woman in a yellow dress, a man in a lab coat with glasses, a husky sitting patiently at their feet. Whatever he saw in their faces seemed to settle something in him.

  "Alright," he said. "Lead the way."

  He turned back to the dogs, who had started creeping closer now that the gun was put away.

  "I'm sorry," he told them. "I didn't mean to scare you. It won't happen again."

  The golden retriever's tail gave a tentative wag. "It's okay. Loud noises are scary. But you said sorry. That's good."

  "Very good," the mutt agreed, though he stayed behind the bench.

  The border collie just watched, assessing. After a moment, she dipped her head. "We'll see you around, Martin Cole."

  Martin stared at the dogs for a long moment. Then he shook his head and followed Mark and Maggie down the street.

  · · ·

  They found a coffee shop three blocks from the hospital.

  It looked like every other building in the Dreamscape—grey walls, muted colors, the ghost of what it had been in the real world. But inside, the chairs were comfortable and the coffee was hot, and that was enough.

  Martin sat across from them, hands wrapped around a cup he hadn't drunk from yet. He'd listened to their explanation without interrupting, asking only occasional questions. His face had cycled through disbelief, confusion, and something that might have been acceptance.

  "So I'm in a coma," he said finally. "And this place—the Dreamscape—is where people go when they..."

  "When they give up," Mark finished. "In some way or another."

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  Martin was quiet for a moment. "You said you wanted to know my circumstances. What happened before I got here."

  "It helps to understand why someone arrived. Shapes how they adapt." Mark leaned back in his chair. "Do you remember everything?"

  "I think so." Martin set down his coffee cup. "I'm a retired cop. Thirty-two years on the force. And I have cancer. Terminal." He said it matter-of-factly, like he was reading from a report. "Last thing I remember is lying in a hospital bed. My wife was there, holding my hand. I closed my eyes, and..." He gestured at the grey walls around them. "Woke up here. Thought I was dead."

  "Not yet," Mark said.

  Martin looked at him. "You said people come here when they give up. I didn't give up on living. I want to live. I have reasons to live."

  "But you gave up on fighting the cancer."

  The words landed heavy. Martin's jaw tightened, and for a moment Maggie thought he might argue. But he didn't. He just sat there, turning the coffee cup in his hands.

  "The treatment wasn't working," he said quietly. "Every round made me weaker. Sicker. And the doctors kept saying maybe the next one, maybe a little longer, maybe if we try this new approach—" He broke off, shaking his head. "I was tired. I wanted whatever time I had left to be mine. Not spent in a hospital bed, pumped full of chemicals that made me feel like I was dying faster."

  Mark didn't respond. Neither did Maggie.

  "So yeah," Martin continued. "I stopped fighting the cancer. But I didn't stop wanting to live." He looked up at them. "There's a difference."

  "The Dreamscape doesn't always see the difference," Mark said. "But I hear you."

  Martin studied him for a long moment. Then his gaze shifted to Maggie.

  "What about you two? You're both here, which means you both gave up on something." His voice was gentle but direct. "Aren't you a little young for that?"

  Mark shrugged. The gesture said everything and nothing.

  Maggie hesitated. The question sat in her chest, pressing against things she'd been careful not to look at.

  "I don't remember everything," she said slowly. "But I know my father died. And there was a man—a criminal. Multiple police records. He was involved somehow." The words felt strange coming out. Distant. Like she was describing someone else's life. "I don't remember the details. Just pieces."

  Martin's expression shifted. He set down his coffee cup with a soft click.

  "What's your last name?"

  "Bourne. Margaret Bourne."

  Something flickered across Martin's face. Recognition.

  "Bourne," he repeated. "Your father—was he a fighter? Taught self-defense, ran a gym?"

  The keychain. The two silhouettes frozen mid-strike, the faded gym logo worn smooth with age. Maggie's hand went to her wrist instinctively, where the leather strap had fused into her skin.

  "Yeah," she said quietly. "That was him."

  Martin leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. "I know that case. I'm retired, but my old partners talked about it. Robbery attempt—guy tried to mug them, it went sideways." He paused, watching her carefully. "They caught him. He's in custody now."

  The words hit Maggie somewhere deep. She hadn't realized she'd been holding tension until it released—a loosening in her chest.

  "They caught him," she repeated.

  "Yeah."

  She thought about the nightmare she'd had early on. The one where she'd been running, fighting, desperate. "I dreamed about it. The number seventeen kept coming up. Seventeen prior convictions."

  Martin's eyebrows rose. "Seventeen?"

  "That's what I saw. What I remembered."

  "It was five." Martin's voice was careful, measured. "Five prior convictions. Bad enough, but not seventeen."

  Maggie stared at him. "Five?"

  "Trauma distorts things," Mark said quietly. "Fear amplifies them. Makes them bigger than they were."

  "Oh." The word came out flat. Maggie didn't know what to do with this information. Her mind had turned a man with five convictions into a monster with seventeen. What else had it twisted? What else was she remembering wrong?

  Mark was watching her. "You okay?"

  "Yeah." She wasn't sure if it was true. "Yeah, I'm fine."

  "You could leave now," Mark said. "If you wanted. You know what happened. You know he's caught. There's nothing keeping you here."

  Maggie considered it. The offer sat there, simple and tempting. Wake up. Go back to whatever life was waiting for her. Stop running from memories in a world made of dreams.

  "No," she said. "Not yet."

  Mark nodded. He didn't push.

  Martin had been watching the exchange with quiet attention. Now he cleared his throat.

  "I don't want to leave either," he said.

  Mark turned to him. "You understand what staying means? This place isn't a vacation. It's dangerous. Things here can hurt you—really hurt you."

  "I understand." Martin's voice was steady. "But I have a wife. The most beautiful woman on earth." A small smile crossed his face. "I promised her I wouldn't die before her. We made that deal forty years ago, and I intend to keep it."

  He said it simply, without drama.

  "Staying here won't stop you from dying," Mark said. "Your body's still in that hospital bed."

  "I know. But maybe it buys me time. A little longer to figure things out." Martin spread his hands. "And if I'm being honest? I'm already half a foot in the grave. Whatever happens here can't be much worse than what's waiting for me out there." A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "Besides. I can walk without pain now. First time in two years."

  Mark and Maggie exchanged a glance.

  "That's how it hooks you," Mark said. But there was no real warning in it. More like resignation.

  "Maybe." Martin shrugged. "But I've been hooked by worse things. Cigarettes. The job. My wife's cooking." The smile widened slightly. "I can handle one more."

  Mark didn't argue further. He picked up his coffee, took a long sip, and set it back down.

  Maggie leaned forward. "How come you're being so nice to him?"

  "What?"

  "You. Being nice." She gestured at Martin. "When Jay showed up, you were an asshole to him for days. But him you're just... talking to. Like a normal person."

  Mark considered the question. "He knows what dying looks like. That helps." He glanced at Martin. "And he's an experienced cop. Thirty-two years. He's not going to panic and summon some monstrosity because a dog talked to him."

  "I might still summon something," Martin said mildly. "Just probably not by accident."

  "That's the spirit."

  Maggie sat back, genuinely surprised. Mark being reasonable. Mark being almost friendly. She filed it away for future reference.

  "So," she said, standing up. "If we're all staying for now, I have a suggestion."

  "Which is?"

  "The Sky Gardens." She'd been thinking about them since Wonderland. Since before Wonderland, really—since Johnny had first mentioned them in a coffee shop that felt like a lifetime ago. "Johnny promised to take me there. I think it's time to collect."

  Martin looked between them. "Sky Gardens? That sounds... imposing."

  "I don't actually know what they are," Maggie admitted. "That's why I want to go."

  Mark drummed his fingers on the table. "We should wait for Johnny. He'll be upset if he misses another adventure. Wonderland was bad enough."

  "Who's Johnny?" Martin asked.

  Mark's expression shifted into something that might have been amusement, might have been warning.

  "If you thought the dogs were annoying," he said, "you're in for a treat."