It felt so ludicrous, in the heart of a scientific facility, to be talking like this.
“They are,” Hugo gestured, as if trying to pluck the right term from the air, “an interpretation.”
“Interpretation?” “I have met others like us,” Hugo said.
“You see, I have been in the in-between state for a long time. I have encountered a few other sliders.
“That’s what I call them. Us. We are sliders. We have a root life in which we are lying somewhere,
unconscious, suspended between life and death, and then we arrive in a place.
“And it is always something different. A library, a video store, an art gallery, a casino, a restaurant... What does that tell you?”
Nora shrugged. And thought. Listening to the hum of the central heating.
“That it’s all bullshit? That none of this is real?”
“No. Because the template is always the same. For instance: there is always someone else there—a guide.
Only ever one person. They are always someone who has helped the person at a significant time in their life.
The setting is always somewhere with emotional significance. And there is usually talk of root lives or branches.”
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