I dived into Mindspace, stupidly, completely blind, and without an anchor. Cherabino should have been there, should have provided the real-world anchor for me, should have held out that mental hand to keep me grounded and finding my way back. I missed her again suddenly. I missed her being here. But I was too embarrassed, too self-conscious to ask my new boss—or worse, Loyola—for help in all of this. I’d manage. I’d manage if it killed me. And it might. Mindspace wasn’t the safest place in the world. Swartz would disapprove of foolish risks if asked. He’d also understand the need to feel strong, or at least I hoped he would. We’d doubtlessly be talking about it at length at our next morning coffee meeting. I took deep breaths, forcing myself to focus. Scattered thoughts were dangerous enough in the real world; in Mindspace, you ran the risk of losing your way or losing yourself, worse still without an anchor.
