Atlas opened his eyes to the smell of burnt toast and fresh coffee. The ceiling above him was the same cracked plaster from their old safehouse, but the light coming through the window was wrong.
It flickered between morning gold and something that looked like a sunset filtered through aquarium glass. He sat up slowly.
Elara was already awake, staring at the kitchen. Or what used to be the kitchen.
A full Starbucks counter now occupied the far wall, complete with a bored barista who appeared to be a slightly translucent version of a guy Atlas had once seen in Chicago. The barista waved half-heartedly.
"Welcome to the first day of whatever this is," the barista said. "Your usual?"
Atlas rubbed his face. "We didn't order this."
