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Now he looked at the real world outside his window—the same quiet street, the same cracked sidewalk. He thought about Roman’s voice: “We’ll go bowling later, cousin.” No one had called him cousin in years. No one had asked him to bowl.

He hadn’t played the game in years. The disc was somewhere in a box, probably scratched. But the map stayed. Taped to a wall, then slid under a mattress, then folded into a textbook. Now it lay flat under a single bulb.

He smiled. And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t need to reload.

Leo traced the southern tip of Algonquin with his finger. That’s where he’d first learned to drive. Not a real car—his uncle’s rusty Cavalier was still in the driveway—but the way the game taught you to weave through traffic, to ride the brake into a slide, to watch for taxis cutting across three lanes. That had been real.