The jazz played loud enough to rattle the windows of Julian Vance's Fifth Avenue apartment, but Julian never turned it down. Music was the only thing that made the noise in his head seem tolerable—the
He was twenty-eight, a year older than when the accident happened, a year younger than he felt. The war had taken his best friend in Flanders. The device had taken something else entirely: the ability to hear the whispers of his other selves, the Julian Vances who existed in adjacent quantum branches, all of them reaching across the dimensional membrane like hands through water. "Julian?"...
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