From grey comes white, and a chill that I can feel through my insulating layers. Is this radical? In this moment I don't know. I'm still getting used to this, and I am nauseous. I look around, searching for something to ground myself, to a place, a time, a relative. Something relatable.I find it below me. A young man, hastily bandaged. He's holding as best he can to a rope secured around his waist. And mine. I've got two hands on it. I'm hauling him up. Up where? Past his shaking body I can see a jagged rock face, unending in the snow.I don't know this man. I'm learning more and more that I never could. But this is a difficult situation. Every second I spend hauling this man to safety is a second I am losing to time. It's not something I can afford to have happen. I can't.I look at him, and like all of us, he realizes. He looks me in the eyes. I can see his nose is broken, and it might never heal correctly. Or it might.I try to communicate what is about to happen, why I am here instead of the woman he knows, where he will end up, but the best I can manage is a shrug. So I shrug. And I let go of the rope.He falls slowly, his eyes wide. I fumble for the device, flick the switch, and the world is grey again.*“My father used to tell me that there were infinite infinities.”Mr. Morton is not impressed.“Um,” I say, “what he meant by, uh, by that is that every, every second. We, uh, humans, he believed that every second, humans would choose from infinite universes, until we found the universe closest to ours overall, and where we were still alive, and then we'd poof, appear in that universe. I mean we wouldn't like magic ourselves there, he thought we did it without thinking, just by existing and observing, we would, I mean, travel to the universe where we were alive. Forever.”He's still not impressed. “Ms. Davis, I'm a busy man.”“No, no, I understand!” I take a sip of water. He hasn't moved for over five minutes. He barely blinks. “I'm getting to it.”“If you insist.”“There are a lot of people who believe it, well, not a lot, and they believe something like it, but it's not justmy father and me who believe it. I believe it too, by the way. I mean, there's research that backs it up. It's conceptually sound. And...”I take another sip of water. Mr. Morton watches me. I look into his eyes. He's staring at my shoes. Then he's looking right into my eyes. Oh. Should I look away? I'm already looking away. I'm looking straight up.Why am I doing that?