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right. Thank God.

    “I didn’t mean to startle you.” It was the Henderson kid, standing in the doorway and looking concerned. This didn’t surprise Wesley much.
If I saw me right now, I’d probably be concerned, too
.

    “Oh, you didn’t startle me,” Wesley said. This obvious lie struck him as funny, and he gave voice to a glassy giggle. He clapped his hand over his mouth to hold it in.

    “What’s wrong?” The Henderson kid took a step inside. “I think it’s more than a virus. Man, you look awful. Did you get some bad news, or something?”

    Wesley almost told him to mind his business, peddle his papers, put an egg in his shoe and beat it, but then the terrified part of him that had been cowering in the farthest corner of his brain, insisting that the pink Kindle was a prank or the opening gambit of some elaborate con, decided to stop hiding and start acting.

    If you really refuse to go mad, you better do something about this
, it said.
So how about it?

    “What’s your first name, Mr. Henderson? It’s entirely slipped my mind.”

    The kid smiled. A pleasant smile, but the concern was still in his eyes. “Robert, sir. Robbie.”

    “Well, Robbie, I’m Wes. And I want to show you something. Either you will see nothing—which means I’m deluded, and very likely suffering a nervous breakdown—or you will see something that completely blows your mind. But not here. Come to my office, would you?”

    Henderson tried to ask questions as they crossed the mediocre quad. Wesley shook them off, but he was glad Robbie Henderson had come back, and glad that the terrified part of his mind had taken the initiative and spoken up. He felt better about the Kindle—
safer
—than he had since discovering the hidden menus. In a fantasy story, Robbie Henderson would see nothing and the protagonist would decide he was going insane. Or had already gone. Reality seemed to be different.
His
reality, at least, Wesley Smith’s Ur.

    I actually want it to be a delusion. Because if it is, and if with this young man’s help I can recognize it as such, I’m sure I can avoid going mad. And I refuse to go mad.

    “You’re muttering sir,” Robbie said. “Wes, I mean.”

    “Sorry.”

    “You’re scaring me a little.”

    “I’m also scaring
me
a little.”

    Don Allman was in the office, wearing headphones, correcting papers, and singing about Jeremiah the bullfrog in a voice that went beyond the borders of merely bad and into the unexplored country of the execrable. He shut off his iPod when he saw Wesley.

    “I thought you had class.”

    “Canceled it. This is Robert Henderson, one of my American Lit students.”

    “Robbie,” Henderson said, extending his hand.

    “Hello, Robbie. I’m Don Allman. One of the Allman Brothers. I play a mean tuba.”

    Robbie laughed politely and shook Don Allman’s hand. Until that moment, Wesley had planned on asking Don to leave, thinking one witness to his mental collapse would be enough. But maybe this was that rare case where the more really was the merrier.

    “Need some privacy?” Don asked.

    “No,” Wesley said. “Stay. I want to show you guys something. And if you see nothing and I see something, I’ll be delighted to check into Central State Psychiatric.” He opened his briefcase.

    “Whoa!” Robbie exclaimed. “A pink Kindle! Sweet! I’ve never seen one of those before!”

    “Now I’m going to show you something else that you’ve never seen before,” Wesley said. “At least, I think I am.”

    He plugged in the Kindle and turned it on.

----

    What convinced Don Allman was the
Collected Works of William Shakespeare
from Ur 17,000. After downloading it at Don’s request—because in this particular Ur, Shakespeare had died in 1620 instead of 1616—the three men discovered two new plays. One was titled
Two Ladies of Hampshire
, a comedy that seemed to have been written soon after
Julius Caesar
. The other was a tragedy called
A Black Fellow in