Behind him, I can see the snow falling outside.
His eyes look hard and cold, but I wonder if he would say the same about me.
As his gaze tracks toward where I’m standing in the back of the room, I squat beneath the dartboard, hidden in a forest of legs.
I let a full minute pass.
When the crowd roars again, I slowly stand.
The door to the bar is closed now.
My doppelg?nger gone.
—
The Bulls win.
People linger, happy and drunk.
It takes an hour for a spot to open up at the bar, and since I have no place to go, I climb onto a stool and order a light beer that brings my balance down to less than $10.
I’m starving, but this place doesn’t serve food, so I devour several bowls of Chex mix as I nurse my beer.
An inebriated man attempts to engage me in a conversation about the Bulls’ postseason chances, but I just stare down into my beer until he insults me and starts bothering two women standing behind us.
He’s loud, belligerent.
A bouncer appears and hauls him outside.
The crowd thins.
As I sit at the bar, trying to tune out the noise, I keep landing on a single concept: I need to get Daniela and Charlie away from our brownstone on 44 Eleanor Street. As long as they’re home, the threat of these Jasons doing something crazy persists.
But how?
Jason2 is presumably with them right now.
It’s the middle of the night.
Going anywhere near our house entails way too much risk.
I need Daniela to leave, to come to me.
But for every idea I have, another Jason is having the same, or already has, or soon will.
There’s no way for me to win.
As the door to the bar swings open, I look over.
A version of me—backpack, peacoat, boots—steps through the doorway, and when our eyes meet, he betrays surprise and raises both arms in a show of deference.
Good. Maybe he’s not here for me.
If there are as many Jasons running around Logan Square as I suspect, chances are he just stumbled in out of the cold, seeking shelter and safety. Like I did.
He crosses to the bar and climbs onto the empty stool beside mine, his bare hands trembling with cold.
Or fear.
The bartender drifts over and looks at both of us with curiosity—as if she wants to ask—but all she says to the new arrival is, “What can I get you?”
“Whatever he’s drinking.”
We watch her pull a pint from the tap and bring over the glass, foam spilling down the sides.
Jason lifts his beer.
I lift mine.
We stare at each other.
He has a fading wound across the right side of his face, like someone slashed him with a knife.
The thread tied around his ring finger is identical to mine.
We drink.
“When did you get—?”
“When did you get—?”
We can’t help but smile.
I say, “This afternoon. You?”
“Yesterday.”
“I have a feeling it’s going to be kind of hard—”
“—not finishing each other’s sentences?”
“You know what I’m thinking right now?”
“I can’t read your mind.”
It’s strange—I’m talking to myself, but his voice doesn’t sound like what I think I sound like.
I say, “I’m wondering how far back you and I branched. Did you see the world of falling ash?”
“Yes. And then the ice. I barely escaped that one.”
“What about Amanda?” I ask.
“We were separated in the storm.”
I feel a pang of loss like a small detonation in my gut.
I say, “We stayed together in mine. Took shelter in a house.”
“The one that was buried to the dormer windows?”
“Exactly.”
“I found that house too. With the dead family inside.”
“So then where—?”
“So then where—?”
“You go,” he says.
As he sips his beer, I ask, “Where did you go after the ice world?”
“I walked out of the box into this guy’s basement. He freaked out. He had a gun, tied me up. Probably would have killed me except he took one of the ampoules and decided to have a look at the corridor for himself.”
“So he went in and never came out.”
“Exactly.”
“And then?”
His eyes go distant for a moment.
He takes another long pull from his beer.
“Then I saw some bad ones. Really bad. Dark worlds. Evil places. What about you?”
I share my story, and though it feels good to unload, it’s undeniably strange to unload on him.
This man and I were the same person up until a month ago. Which means ninety-nine-point-nine percent of our history is shared.
We’ve said the same things. Made identical choices. Experienced the same fears.
The same love.
As he buys our second round of beers, I can’t take my eyes off him.
I’m sitting next to me.
There’s something about him that doesn’t seem quite real.
Perhaps because I’m watching from an impossible vantage point—looking at myself from outside of myself.